


(I got those) worried blues

by jouissant



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M, POV Multiple, Polyamory, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:05:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 52,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following his recovery from the Khan incident (and Spock and McCoy's decision to conceal the truth about what exactly brought him back), Jim finds himself facing down a Starfleet review board. When he's placed on administrative leave and has his command ability called into question, the obvious next step is to drink copiously and accidentally ask Spock out to dinner. But then he's abducted by  mysterious forces, and suddenly relationship negotiations are the least of everyone's worries as Spock, Uhura, and McCoy try to pin down Section 31 and cope with the possibility that their worst fears for Jim may have come to pass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as [no traveller returns](http://archiveofourown.org/works/813340%22). 
> 
> I think of this as something of a sequel, but I think it stands on its own. In a nutshell, though, it's based on the premise that Spock and McCoy decided to cover up what really happened to Jim in the warp core, stating that he gave up command voluntarily based on exhaustion and emotional compromise, because they were concerned about what Starfleet and Section 31 would make of the whole superblood thing. 
> 
> This story starts several weeks after Jim wakes up at the end of _Into Darkness_.
> 
> As per usual, a million thanks to [museattack](http://archiveofourown.org/users/museattack) for her stellar beta job and awesome character and plot insights, as well as the shiny banner! Thank you so much for going above and beyond for this fic.
> 
> BREAKING NEWS, y'all, [jad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jad/pseuds/jad) made some insanely gorgeous OT3 art inspired by this story- it doesn't necessarily illustrate anything that happens in the fic, but let's be real, I think it's where we're all hoping this is headed. Bask in the hotness [here](http://jad.livejournal.com/66759.html) (probably nsfw).

[ ](http://s898.photobucket.com/user/jouissant/media/blues-cover_zpsd77751e8.jpg.html)

Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco

“Button that top button, dammit,” McCoy said, reaching for Jim’s neck. “Were you raised in a barn?”

“Close enough,” Jim said, batting his hands away. “Quit hovering, Jesus. These stupid collars are itchy as hell; I was going to button it in a second.” 

“Yeah, well, they’re getting ready to call us in, so it’s now or never.” McCoy shoved his hands into his pockets as if he needed to physically restrain himself from fussing over Jim. He slouched against the wall next to Spock, who stood ramrod-straight in dress greys with a curious expression on his face. 

“Were you indeed raised in a barn?” he asked Jim. Hearing the phrase come out of Spock’s mouth was almost enough to make Jim laugh in spite of his nerves. 

“On a farm,” he said, smiling. “So, like I said, close enough.” He was having a hard time not smiling around Spock these days.

Spock nodded as if to himself. “Fascinating,” he muttered. 

“Why is that--”

The conference room door slid open then, and a short, prim-looking woman stepped out. Her eyes darted down to her PADD and then back up to Jim’s face. “Captain James T. Kirk?” 

“That’s me,” Jim said. “Um, I mean, present.” He grinned at her. She didn’t smile back. Jim was beginning to reassess the whole cocky under pressure thing, but old habits died hard. 

“We’ll begin now,” she said, stepping back inside. Jim glanced back at Spock and McCoy. Bones looked like hell, and Spock looked cool as a cucumber. Hopefully it would all average out somehow. He shrugged in their general direction, and stepped into the conference room. 

The room was long and narrow, with a fittingly long and narrow table running most of its length. Three chairs were arranged at one end of the table, ten at the other, with ten equally stern officers sitting in them. _Great,_ thought Jim. _This is definitely not designed to be at all intimidating._

“Gentlemen,” said the short woman, pulling out her chair. “Please have a seat.” Jim sat in the center chair, flanked by Spock and McCoy. It’s going to be fine, Jim thought. Just like we talked about. He swallowed. 

The woman cleared her throat. “We’ll get started,” she said, setting her PADD in front of her on the table and picking up her stylus. “I’m Dr. Baht.” She nodded at McCoy. “Good to see you again, doctor,” she said. McCoy drew back reflexively, looking like he wanted to hide under the table. “Ma’am,” he said. 

“Captain Kirk, Commander Spock,” she said, nodding at each of them in turn. “As you know, this is in no way a disciplinary action,” she said. McCoy looked unconvinced, but Jim attempted to fight back his nerves and take the statement at face value. She read from her PADD. 

“Our purpose here today is to discuss Captain Kirk’s actions over the course of his pursuit of the fugitive John Harrison and the potential repercussions those actions may have for his physical and mental health, as well as his ability to resume command in the future. This committee, comprised of individuals from both Command and Medical divisions, will make recommendations based on our experience as well as the...unique aspects of this particular situation. Is that clear?” 

Jim cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Baht did smile then, and Jim felt the barest tinge of relief. “So, let’s begin with a rundown of what happened, in your own words,” she said. “I believe we all have copies of your first officer’s and chief medical officer’s reports,” she said, looking around her end of the table. The other nine officers nodded. “Good,” she said. “If you’ll take it away, Captain Kirk?”

***

Not for the first time, Spock found himself curiously grateful for what humans sometimes termed his superior poker face. He wondered if it would be difficult to convince Dr. McCoy to submit to some type of coaching. He somehow doubted it would be possible. Spock told himself that his hyper-awareness of the delicate nature of their situation was surely influencing his interpretation of the meeting. He and McCoy had briefed Jim at length over the past few nights. Spock had even found himself considering a meld, in order to show Jim exactly how Spock imagined the events he’d included in his report, but ultimately he decided this was ill-advised and settled for detailed verbal descriptions.

Hope was by definition illogical. There was only probability, extrapolation based on past events and their likely consequences. Spock knew this, had known it from the earliest, but try as he might this knowledge did not stop hope from pricking at him at inopportune moments like a point of light in a darkened room. Lately, he had hoped so fervently as to be pained by it, standing astride a garbage scow mere seconds from ending another being’s life in cold blood. Hope had dragged him back from the brink then, a lifeline, and Spock had no choice but to be grateful. 

And now, here in this room just one building over from the last ill-fated conference he had attended, Spock found himself giving into hope yet again. He hoped he was correct in his reading of Starfleet’s preferred method of handling the circumstances surrounding John Harrison’s apprehension. He supposed Dr. Baht’s introduction to the proceedings demonstrated that Khan’s true identity was not considered public knowledge. 

He wondered which of the assembled officers knew the truth. Perhaps, Spock decided, it was better not to speculate. Beside him, Jim was detailing Spock’s version of events admirably, and Spock found himself thinking that, for better or worse, thinking on his feet did not come unnaturally to his captain. 

“Captain Kirk, I’m Dr. Saxena. How would you characterize your mental state following the death of Admiral Pike?” asked a young-looking human woman in Medical dress uniform. 

Jim swallowed, licking his lips briefly in what Spock had come to recognize as a sort of nervous stalling tactic. It was typically successful, in his experience. “Um, that’s a pretty complicated question,” Jim said. “But I’ll just put it simply and say I was...compromised, shortly following Admiral Pike’s death.” 

“Do you believe that emotional state influenced your actions in apprehending John Harrison?” 

Jim looked down at the table. “Of course,” he said. “But I think, with all due respect, Starfleet Command wouldn’t have had it any other way.” 

“Captain Kirk, let me remind you that Admiral Marcus’ actions were not in any way sanctioned by Starfleet Command at large,” interjected Admiral Barnett. 

Jim opened his mouth as if to refute this, but appeared to think better of it. Instead, he nodded, and Spock felt a tightness in his chest loosen slightly. “Of course not,” he said evenly, although the tonelessness of Jim’s answer communicated more to Spock than the bitterest of retorts. 

“Of course not,” Jim repeated. “But I believe Admiral Marcus chose to capitalize on my state of compromise in allowing--no, _encouraging_ me to take the _Enterprise_ and go after Harrison,” he said. 

“But you’ve got yourself a Vulcan first officer,” Barnett said, looking directly at Spock. “Commander, where were you in all this? Shouldn’t talking humans down from the edge be something of a specialty for you by now?” 

Something in the man’s tone irritated Spock, but he tamped the emotion down almost immediately. “I am often called upon to provide a counterpoint to Captain Kirk’s command decisions,” Spock said. “But this is more a function of my role as first officer than of my nature as a Vulcan. In this case,” he said, “I believe that I allowed my own...feelings for Admiral Pike to dominate my decision making.” He paused, consciously countering the vasodilation mechanisms that threatened to ferry a hot flush of green to his cheeks. When he spoke again, he was deadly calm, and he fixed his interlocutors with a stare not unlike the one with which he favored the ministers of the Vulcan Science Academy several years prior. “It was a regrettably human lapse on my part,” he said stonily. “It will not recur.” 

There was a muffled explosion of talk from the opposite end of the table, the human officials no doubt grievously offended. Spock was perhaps more satisfied by his choice of deflection tactics than he should have been, but he had not missed the tightness around Jim’s eyes when Dr. Saxena questioned him about Pike. 

Barnett gave Spock a measured look. Spock expected an additional query, but then the admiral dropped his gaze and turned toward Dr. McCoy. “You’re Chief Medical Officer aboard the _Enterprise_ , correct?” 

“That’s correct, sir,” said McCoy. 

“What was your assessment of Captain Kirk’s physical state at the outset of the Harrison operation?” 

McCoy spread his palms wide on the table, inspecting them as if they held the answers to Barnett’s question. “Well, Captain Kirk missed his medical exam the morning after the attack on Daystrom,” he said. “Although that in and of itself isn’t necessarily out of character,” he said drily. Low laughter rose from the opposite end of the room. Masterful, Doctor, thought Spock. 

“Anyway,” McCoy went on, “I took readings as best I could; you’ll see them in my report.” He gestured to the PADDs. “Kirk’s vitals were way off. Looking back I can see it was pretty drastic; could’ve been the beginning of shock, definitely extreme stress.” 

“And did you witness Captain Kirk relinquish command as a result of...what does it say here, exhaustion?” 

McCoy pursed his lips for moment before continuing. Under the table, the palms of Spock’s hands had begun to perspire. “No,” he said. “I did not. That was just Commander Spock here.” 

The assembled officers appeared to note this fact for the record. When they turned back to Spock, his answer would be ready. 

The meeting--Starfleet persisted in referring to the session as a meeting rather than a hearing, determined as they were to defuse any potential disciplinary connotation--continued for a further forty-three minutes and twenty-two seconds, with the three of them fielding question after question. At last, Dr. Baht gathered her notes and stood, declaring a recess during which the council would discuss their “findings” and provide Captain Kirk with “recommendations concerning his suitability to return to command”, which even Spock had to admit sounded rather ominous for a non-disciplinary non-hearing. 

In the corridor, Jim slumped forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. He appeared to study the floor intently. McCoy hunched against the wall, muttering reassuring platitudes at periodic intervals. Spock could not be sure whether they were directed at Jim or at McCoy himself. He elected not to inquire. For his part, Spock stepped close to Jim, hesitating for a moment before placing his hand awkwardly on Jim’s shoulder. Jim flinched, and Spock wondered if he had erred, but then Jim’s eyes softened. “Thanks,” he said. 

Spock nodded in reply. “All will be well,” he said. “And as you recall, Vulcans cannot lie.” 

Jim rolled his eyes. “Something tells me that’s open to interpretation,” he said. Spock did not respond. 

When the meeting resumed, they did not bother taking their seats again. Instead, they stood at attention while the council noted their recommendations, which Spock suspected were rather more compulsory than the word implied. Once more, the human predilection for euphemism puzzled him. 

Six months paid administrative leave, obligatory weekly meetings with the Division of Psychology, reassessment of his progress prior to officially resuming command of the _Enterprise_ upon completion of her refit. All things considered, Spock supposed the verdict could certainly have been worse. Next to him, Jim’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He thanked the council for their time and consideration, and the three men were dismissed.

***

“Well,” McCoy said, raising his glass to his lips, “it could be worse.” He took a sip, possibly to forestall the inevitable reaction from Jim. The three of them had adjourned to a nearby bar with which Jim and McCoy seemed to be well-acquainted. McCoy claimed the visit was celebratory in nature, but Spock suspected it was more akin to the human custom of drowning one’s sorrows, for Jim at least.

“It could always be worse,” Jim said grimly. “Doesn’t exactly make me happy to be on _forced leave_ , having my ability to command called into question--”

“That’s just a formality,” McCoy said, waving his hand dismissively. 

“Is it, though? Who knows what they’re looking for, Bones? I mean, shit,” he lowered his voice, leaning over in the booth. “Of course I was compromised, taking off to Qo’noS like that. Marcus knew it, I knew it...” He ran a hand over his face, looking at Spock. “You knew it too, didn’t you? But you came anyway, when I asked to reinstate you.” 

Spock gripped his glass of Altair water, fingertips overlapping slightly on the cool surface. The physical sensation was grounding. “As I stated previously, my function as first officer is often to provide...checks and balances. I believed I might be of service to you in that capacity, given your emotional state at the time.” McCoy snorted into his drink, and Spock looked up at him pointedly. “Additionally, I spoke truthfully in the meeting just now,” he said. “I felt Admiral Pike’s loss keenly, as you are aware. Perhaps my motivation for accompanying you was more human in origin than I revealed at the time.” 

“S’okay, Spock,” McCoy drawled. “Nobody’s perfect.” 

“Perhaps not, Doctor,” Spock replied. “But surely a Vulcan comes passably close.” He quirked an eyebrow in McCoy’s direction, and Jim burst into laughter. If Spock found this gratifying, he did not reveal it. 

Jim rubbed his eyes, yawning. Spock did not miss McCoy’s querulous look, and did not need telepathy to know his thoughts. “You sleeping all right?” McCoy asked, narrowing his eyes at Jim. “Because I’ve got a hypo for that.” 

Jim made a disgusted noise. “Thanks but no thanks,” he said. He looked at Spock. “I’m going to the head. Don’t let him put a tranq in my drink. I wouldn’t put it past you,” he said to McCoy’s argumentative look. 

McCoy scarcely waited until Jim was out of earshot before groaning and dropping his head into his hands. “I guess that went about as well as it possibly could have,” he said to the table. He looked back up at Spock. “What do you think?” 

“I concur,” Spock said, taking a sip of water. “And I believe the captain understands, in his way.” 

“Yeah, he does,” McCoy said. “Doesn’t mean it’s not a blow to the ego, though.” He sighed. “Think this means they bought the report?” 

“Perhaps they wished to,” Spock said. “Though I do not think there is much of a functional difference. Have you followed the press coverage of the Harrison incident?” In something of an unspoken agreement, they had largely reverted to using Khan’s alias. 

“Kind of,” McCoy said. “Honestly, I’m trying to forget it ever happened.” 

“Willful ignorance is a luxury we cannot afford,” Spock said. “Starfleet continues to maintain that Harrison acted alone, commandeering a prototype starship still in development, obtaining cooperation where necessary via the threat of lethal force. The beings who lost their lives did so in service to Starfleet, and should be honored accordingly.” 

“Even Marcus, huh?” McCoy shook his head slowly. “That fucker. So it’s easier to just cover it all up and let him be a hero than to admit Starfleet might have links to Section 31, might’ve brought all this about themselves.” 

“That appears to be case,” Spock said. “I admit, I find myself unsurprised.”

“Unsurprised about what?” Jim appeared next to the booth, holding a fresh drink he had evidently procured for McCoy. “Sorry, did you want anything?” He indicated Spock’s nearly-full glass. “I figured...” 

Spock shook his head. “I cannot stay,” he said. He stood, tucking his hat beneath his arm. Jim smiled at him again, and there was a brief flash of something in his eyes that Spock could not readily identify. It was growing increasingly familiar, he thought. It seemed to take him longer than strictly necessary to turn away from Jim and McCoy, to exit the bar and leave the humans to their sorrows and congratulations. When he managed it, stepping out into the foggy evening, he felt heavier somehow. Hope was illogical, he thought. And yet.

Three weeks later

“Do you know what the decibel level in here is doing to our eardrums right now?” McCoy squinted into the strobes, clapping his hands over his ears for emphasis.

“Aw, c’mon, live a little,” Jim said. He slurped the last of his drink from its highball glass and raised his arms over his head in exultation. The light in the club was all purples and pinks and blues, and between the music and alcohol he had approximately zero chance of forming a coherent thought for the rest of the night. Perfect, Jim thought. McCoy stepped closer, and Jim turned toward him, moving in time to the music. McCoy leaned in and seized Jim’s bicep. 

“What are you doing? I thought we were gonna dance. Ow, Bones, your fingers are all pointy...where are we going? Are you buying me another drink, because that’d be really nice of--”

“It’s 1:30,” McCoy said, shouting to be heard over the din. “I have to be in clinic in five hours. I’m getting the hell out of this den of iniquity and going home.” He relinquished Jim’s arm and shoved him gently against the bar. “But since A, I’m an excellent friend, and B, I took an oath to first do no harm, I’m leaving you in the care of these two so you don’t end up choking on your own vomit in a ditch somewhere.” McCoy deposited Jim in front of Spock and Uhura, both of whom stood at the bar sipping glasses of water and looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Jim said. “I’m not even that drunk.”

“Upon extended observation, I have gleaned that the frequency with which you insist that you are ‘not that drunk’ appears to be directly proportional to your actual blood-alcohol level,” Spock said. 

“Correlation is not causation,” Jim said. “Bones, you can’t leave me with them, they look like they’re at a funeral.”

Uhura winced at that, and Jim felt a brief pang of regret before deciding that no, fuck it, these three stiffs were absolutely infringing on his right to get obnoxiously drunk off his ass and he was not going to stand for it. He shrugged away from McCoy and elbowed his way between Spock and Uhura to lean heavily on the bar and wave his empty glass at the bartender. She rolled all six eyes at him, but plunked a beer down in front of him a minute later anyway. 

“I’m downgrading you,” she said. He stuck his tongue out at her and left a big tip. 

“This is ridiculous,” Uhura said when he’d turned back to the group. “It’s a weeknight, Jim. The rest of us have to work tomorrow--sorry, later today.” She sighed, taking her purse off a barstool. “I’m tired. I’m going back with Len.” She laid a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “You coming?” 

“Aw, Uhura, come on,” he said, cajoling. She shook her head at him. “I’m having fun,” he said. 

Uhura gave him a long look. She smiled, a little sadly. “Okay,” she said, shaking her head. She looked over at Spock. “What about you?” 

“Yeah, what about you?” Jim asked. 

Spock looked from Jim to Uhura. He looked mildly uncomfortable. He straightened the hem of his shirt, which seemed a little off given that he was wearing civvies. Jim was starting to think that was a nervous tic, if Spock ever actually got nervous. 

“I require approximately 45% less sleep than a human,” Spock started, sounding almost apologetic. 

Uhura sighed again. “Fine,” she said. “You want to keep enabling him like this, go right ahead, Spock.” 

“I’m right here, you know,” Jim said petulantly. 

Spock stepped close to her, pulling her to him gently and whispering in her ear. Something about the intimacy of the moment made Jim look away, face hot. Spock straightened, and Uhura leaned in and kissed him on the lips. She turned to Jim, and when she smiled at him her eyes were soft. She kissed his cheek, and he surprised himself by snaking an arm around her waist and hugging her tightly. She smelled good even in the smoky press of the club, like soap or clean laundry. 

“Have fun,” she said as she turned to go. “And be careful. See you later.” 

Jim watched her go, feeling slightly crestfallen. He turned to Spock, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. 

“You want to go somewhere else?” Jim asked. Spock appeared to consider for a moment, then nodded. 

Outside, Jim shook his head in a vain attempt to get rid of the cottony feeling in his ears. It was cool and foggy, and he drew his jacket around him tighter as they walked. 

“You realize you have likely sustained permanent damage to your tympanic membrane,” Spock said. “You should not have remained in such close proximity to the sound system.” It sounded like he was underwater. Jim frowned. 

“Take it up with Bones,” he said. 

“If you wished to leave, why did we not accompany Nyota and Dr. McCoy?” Spock asked. 

“I wanted to leave, not go home,” Jim said. 

“Ah,” Spock said. “And where did you wish to go?” 

“I don’t know,” Jim said. He considered. “There’s that bar, the one we went to after the hearing? It’s right around the corner.” 

Spock gave him a sidelong glance. He seemed to be assessing Jim somehow, and the thought of that got right under Jim’s skin and made him want to do stupid things. Like go to another bar with Spock, get him in one of those little corner booths--wait, what? 

“I have no objection,” Spock said. 

Jim barked out a laugh that abruptly devolved into a coughing fit. “Sorry?” he managed a minute later. 

“I have no objection to returning to your proposed establishment,” Spock said. He was still giving Jim that look, like a fucking laser or, like, x-ray goggles or something, and Spock with goggles, that was pretty funny...

“Is something humorous?” 

“No, nope. Nothing. Let’s go, we don’t have that long before last call.” Jim struck out down the street in the direction of the bar. He didn’t need to look back to know that Spock followed, or that he had fixed Jim’s back with the same quizzical look he seemed to wear 85% of the time these days. 

The bar was crowded for a Tuesday. Jim spotted a booth across the room and waved Spock over to it before walking up to the bar, elbowing as politely as he could past a mass of impossibly young cadets. God, they were babies. He wanted to tell them to go home, fall into bed and sleep the sleep of the blithely irresponsible. They’d wake up feeling like death warmed over and their med track roommate would hypo all their problems away, and they’d never have occasion to reflect on the irony of phrases like “death warmed over” as applied to their own _actual deaths_. And where the hell was the bartender, because Jim needed another beer A-fucking-SAP. 

Spock looked askance at the two beers Jim plunked down on the table. “I’ll get you a water,” Jim said. Spock just raised an eyebrow. 

“That is unnecessary,” Spock said. “I would prefer that you remain here, as I have already had to rebuff several invitations from cadets to ‘get my drink on’.” 

Jim snorted, sliding into the booth across from Spock. “Are you serious? Don’t they know you’re a professor?” 

“I do not believe they consider that a deterrent,” Spock said. 

Jim waggled his eyebrows. “I probably wouldn’t have either,” he said, taking a swig of his beer. 

Spock looked like he was about a hairsbreadth away from rolling his eyes. “Did you often frequent establishments such as this while at the academy?” he asked. 

Now Jim actually did roll his eyes. “Come on, Spock, you’re telling me my reputation doesn’t precede me? I’m sure Uhura told you plenty about the kinds of establishments I frequented back in the day.” 

“She may have expressed envy at your ability to indulge in an amount of leisure activity incongruous with your academic achievements,” Spock said. “Although I must request that this disclosure remain between us.” 

Jim rubbed his hands together. “Oh man, come on, you can’t just drop a bomb like that and expect me to keep it a secret,” he said, laughing. “Nyota ‘unprecedented aural sensitivity’ Uhura, jealous of little old me?” 

Spock glowered at him. 

“Fine, fine, I won’t tell on you. Not that it’s not a little bit--or a lot--gratifying.” He clutched a hand to his chest in mock reverence. “I’ll just keep it here, in my heart of hearts, and think about it at night when I can’t sleep.” 

And there was that look again, like Spock had something to say, something on the tip of his tongue. Jim finished his beer in one gulp. He looked up at a crack in the ceiling so he wouldn’t have to look Spock in the eye anymore. When he looked back, taking up the second bottle, the moment seemed to have passed. 

“I believe your modesty to be disingenuous,” Spock said, looking down at the table top. “While your methods are often unorthodox, they cannot be said to lack a particular...I believe the expression is _je ne sais quoi._ How did Admiral Pike describe you, when he found you and convinced you to enlist?” 

“What? Oh--genius-level repeat offender,” he said, making quote signs with his fingers. He felt himself blush. “But c’mon, that was Pike,” Jim qualified. “He had a way of...spinning things, when he needed to.” He sighed, and now he dropped his own gaze, feeling rather than seeing Spock look up and stare at him again. 

“I miss him,” Jim said. His throat caught on the last word. Oh well, he thought. Guess it’s time to proceed to the maudlin portion of the evening. 

“His was a great loss,” Spock said, and for a second his choice of words irritated Jim, like Spock was giving some BS speech, or a sound bite to the news. _You were there,_ he thought. _His blood was all over you, his thoughts were in your head._ He huffed a sigh, looking away. He opened his mouth as if to refute Spock and then closed it again, and the acrimony must have shown in his face because Spock slid his hand halfway across the table, palm up. For a crazy second, Jim thought he was reaching for him. Spock flipped his hand over and left it there, drumming his fingers on the wood.

“You misunderstand me, Jim,” he said quietly. “I...I feel Admiral Pike’s absence personally, as you do.” Spock bit his lip. “Additionally,” he said, “I do not believe his description of you then to have been anything other than the truth.” 

Jim felt a rush of heat to his face again, and he rubbed a hand over it in a vain effort at some kind of deflection. “First Uhura, then you,” he said. “If I’m not careful, it’s going to go to my head.” 

Spock quirked an eyebrow. “I fear it is too late,” he said wryly. 

“So,” Jim said brightly, pointedly ignoring Spock’s gibe. “You heard from anyone else lately? I’ve kind of been ignoring my ‘Fleet email. I should probably stop doing that.” 

“That would be wise,” Spock said. “May I ask how you determined that a logical course of action?” 

“Oh, there’s nothing logical about it,” Jim said. “It just kind of bums me out to feel like anything I do in a captainly capacity is basically provisional until further notice.” 

“As Dr. McCoy told you previously, that is merely a formality. You will doubtless be fully reinstated when your leave elapses--”

“And you know that how, Spock?” It came out more sharply than he meant it to. He sighed, licking his lips reflexively. “Sorry,” he said. “I know, I know, we’ve been over this. I just need to stop worrying and love administrative leave, right? Get over my nasty case of _exhaustion._ ” He picked up his bottle and drank, swallowing it down despite the beginnings of the unpleasant waterlogged sensation he got when he drank too much beer. He coughed into his hand, stifling the urge to burp given his present company. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I’m hungry.”

***

“Spock. What the hell are you doing? That is not how you eat a burrito,” Jim said, laughing and slapping his hand over his mouth. “Oh my God,” he said into his hand. “I think guacamole is coming out my nose.”

Spock paused, forkful of burrito halfway to his mouth. “That,” he said, “is precisely why I prefer this method.” 

“Oh, please,” Jim said. “You just don’t want to run the risk of looking marginally ridiculous, even for a second.” 

Spock gave him a look that indicated he thought Jim should consider taking a page--or a whole chapter--from that book every once in awhile. Jim took a sip of his soda. 

“Why does Uhura think you’re enabling me?” he said, swallowing. 

Spock hesitated, poking a wedge of avocado with his fork. The gesture was strikingly human, and it made Jim feel a little funny. Or maybe that was that last beer, which...shit, his burrito was not exactly having the desired absorptive effect. “I am really drunk,” he muttered to himself. 

“Nyota doesn’t believe you are dealing with the repercussions of the Harrison incident in a healthy manner,” Spock said. “Or dealing with them at all,” he added. 

“Really,” Jim said. “And what do you think?” 

“I fail to see why my opinion would hold a different value than Nyota’s,” Spock said. “In fact, as she is considerably more expert in human social nuances--” 

“Stop dodging the question,” Jim said. He shook his head. “Whatever, Spock, you don’t have to give me a straight answer. Doesn’t matter, anyway. You’re not enabling me, and I’m dealing just fine.” Jim said. He swallowed. Ugh, he should have gone vegetarian. That ground beef was not sitting right. Spock had the right idea, Vulcans probably never--

“Oh my God,” he said. “I’m going to--” He stood up hurriedly, shoving his chair back and nearly knocking it over in the process. As it was, he barely made it to the bathroom. He decided to thank his lucky stars that he’d missed puking all over Spock’s shoes. No, nope, he wasn’t going to think about that, because...

Jim whimpered as he leaned over and retched again.

Several minutes later, he heard the bathroom door slide open. “Are you all right?” Spock said from outside the stall. Jim knelt on the floor. The room had slowly stopped spinning, and he was beginning to consider standing up a viable option again. 

“This is really embarrassing,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“You are experiencing a physiological reaction to overconsumption of alcohol,” Spock said. “There is no cause for embarrassment.” 

Jim coughed. “That’s very diplomatic of you,” he said, getting unsteadily to his feet and stepping out of the stall. He cleaned his hands, making a face at himself in the bathroom mirror and cursing the damn burrito place for only having sonic sinks. “Ugh, I look like shit,” he muttered to his reflection. 

“It is very late,” Spock said carefully. “Perhaps you should consider--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jim said wearily. “Let’s go home.” 

He made it out to the street and into the cab before he fully remembered that home was not, in fact, the _Enterprise_ , but a furnished Starfleet apartment that was about a half-step up from his dorm room in terms of size and decorated in tasteful shades of beige and puce. The rest of the crew had similar living arrangements, with the exception of Spock, who owned an apartment because apparently investing in real estate was eminently logical. It was probably about a thousand times nicer than Jim’s hovel, but he wouldn’t know because he hadn’t been invited over, which he was definitely not bitter about at all. 

“This is terrible,” he said as they pulled up in front of G Tower. He fumbled in his back pocket for his credit chip, but Spock waved him off and handed the driver his own. Insult to injury, Jim thought. “I’ll get you next time,” he said weakly, opening the door and climbing awkwardly out of the low-slung aircab. 

Spock watched him from the curb, looking slightly bemused. “What is terrible?” he asked. 

Jim sighed. He stretched his arms over his head, looking up at the sprinkling of stars visible through the ambient light. “Nothing,” he said. “Everything.” 

“That is...highly variable,” Spock said. 

“Yup.” 

“I assume you are able to return to your apartment under your own power,” Spock said, looking off down the street. He looked weird under the streetlights, paler than usual. 

“Um, yes,” Jim said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I feel...surprisingly sober now, actually.” 

“You sound disappointed,” Spock said. 

Jim shrugged. “You can get home okay?” he asked. 

Spock nodded. “My residence is within walking distance,” he said. Jim felt an irrational prick of chagrin at the fact that this was news to him. A guy watches you die, you’d think you could at least get his home address. Okay, maybe he wasn’t all that sober after all. He shook his head, ignoring Spock’s querulous expression. He stepped closer and clapped a hand on Spock’s shoulder. Spock twitched. 

“Night,” Jim said. 

“Goodnight, Captain,” Spock replied. Jim headed for the turbolift. As the doors closed, he spared a glance out the lobby windows. He thought he could still make out Spock standing there on the sidewalk, his back to Jim, looking up at the sky.

***

Spock’s apartment was indeed within walking distance, although it was perhaps further than most beings would choose to walk this early in the morning. Spock found the walk satisfying, an opportunity to be alone with his thoughts in a way that was not always possible when one spent the majority of one’s time around so gregarious a species as humans. He walked through the cool night mentally composing an outline for tomorrow’s lecture. He was fortunate that his sudden return to the classroom had yielded such a satisfactory assignment; the senior astrophysics seminar had always been one of his favorites, illogical as it was to assign preference to one academic subject over another. He was beginning to formulate a series of questions for his forthcoming exam when he caught a darting movement out of the corner of his eye, across the street and just behind him. He paused, staring into the shadows, and the movement stopped.

It was late, Spock thought to himself. While it was true he required less sleep than did humans, he was not immune to the effects of physical and mental stress. He blinked into the shadows and saw no further movement. He turned and continued along his route, mentally tallying the hours of sleep he estimated would be necessary to regain his full cognitive function and imagining Nyota’s reaction to his professed need for rest. He supposed it would involve some variation on the phrase “I told you so.” He thought of her warm eyes dancing as she laughed. And then there it was again, that flicker of movement just off to the side. It was a figure, of this he was now certain. It was following him, tracking him in parallel. 

The tiny hairs on the back of Spock’s neck stood up, and he felt a curious sensation of being watched. Vulcans did not experience the phenomenon of intuition; indeed, Spock had come to believe that the humans who spoke of it in nearly mystical terms had simply become divorced from their bodies’ natural fight-or-flight mechanisms. Now, standing on the dimly lit sidewalk, Spock felt like nothing so much as a hunted animal. It was a distinctly unsettling sensation, and he meant to put an end to it. 

He ceased moving forward and instead cut directly across the street, moving straight toward the figure. He was within ten feet of it when the glittering swirl of a transporter beam swallowed the figure up, and before Spock could so much as open his mouth to speak, the figure had dissolved into the night. 

“Curious,” Spock said to himself. The remainder of his walk home proceeded rather more quickly.

When he arrived home, he keyed himself into the apartment to find a single glowing lamp lit, illuminating Nyota’s still form curled up on one corner of the sofa. They did not always spend the night together, and he admitted to some doubt that they would do so tonight following his decision to remain with Jim. That she had decided to stay cheered him, and rather than dismissing the emotion out of hand he allowed it to remain in the forefront of his mind as if it were the subject of an experiment. From across the room, Nyota stirred. She sat up, blinking at her chrono. 

“You’re back,” she said. “What time is it?” 

“0435,” he replied automatically. He moved across the room, sitting adjacent to her. The sofa was upholstered in a pleasing slate grey. Spock found it calming. “Something unusual occurred on my return trip,” he said. 

“Something? That’s a little vague, isn’t it?” 

Spock frowned minutely. “Indeed,” he said. “However, I am unable to be more specific at this time. I believe I was being followed. I attempted to approach my pursuer, who beamed away utilizing a transporter of some kind.” 

Nyota yawned. “From a ship?” 

“I cannot say,” Spock said. He stifled a yawn himself, feeling an irrational prick of shame at what he should logically dismiss as a simple physiological response. 

“They’re contagious,” Nyota said. She ran her hand up Spock’s arm to his shoulder, squeezing lightly at his upper trapezius. “So, I’m up,” she said. “And you’re back. I wasn’t sure you were coming back, honestly.” 

“Clarify,” Spock said. 

“Oh, you know,” she said. “Who knows what kind of trouble you and Jim might get into.” 

Her words conjured a strange sense of unease, though it was not entirely unpleasant. Spock swallowed. “I do not believe that clarifies anything,” he said. She rolled her eyes, and kissed him. 

“No,” she said, laughing. “I guess it doesn’t.”

***

Spock awoke four hours later feeling considerably less clear-headed than was typical on an average morning. He could hear Nyota in the kitchen, replicating breakfast. This routine was growing familiar, he thought. Everything about this place was becoming familiar, oddly so after nearly 12 months of shipboard life. But it was taking longer than it should to readjust to long hours with only himself for company, after the habitual close quarters so endemic to the _Enterprise_.

Spock found himself regularly taking meals in the academy cafeteria, much to the surprise and abject terror of certain of his students. But something about the hum of background noise, the bustle and blur of cadet reds, soothed Spock on a fundamental level. It was a truth he acknowledged only in his most private moments, and not without some measure of discomfort. Following his mid-morning lecture, Spock sat in the cafeteria meditating on this paradoxical emotional juxtaposition and staring at the marbling in the stone floors when Jim stepped into his field of vision. For a matter of milliseconds, Spock imagined himself borne back in time to the academy of 14 months previous, before planetary drilling devices and falling starships and hands pressed desperately to glass. Jim stood so alive before him now, so much himself that Spock felt a pang of residual annoyance left over from Jim’s last _Kobayashi Maru_. 

“Hey,” Jim said, pulling out the opposite chair and sitting down. He peered at Spock. “Are you okay?” 

Spock became aware that his mouth was open. He closed it, teeth making a tight little snap as he did so. “Yes,” he said. 

Jim gave him another unreadable look. “Okay,” he said, sounding unconvinced. 

“Are you well?” Spock asked, recovering himself. 

Jim made a gagging sound, crossing his arms on the tabletop and laying his head on top of them. “Ugh,” he said. “Yes, if you can believe it. Well, I mean, I’ve been better. I’m really sorry about that, by the way. Last night. I feel like a jackass.” 

“There is no need to apologize,” Spock said. 

“How was Uhura? Was she pissed?” 

“She was not,” Spock said. 

Jim pressed his lips together and looked off over Spock’s shoulder. “Good,” he said. “Good.” He turned back to Spock. “Listen,” he said. “I want...let me make it up to you. Let me take you to dinner.” 

Spock blinked. “What?” 

“Let me take you out--uh, out to dinner, I mean. Somewhere that’s not crappy burritos at 3 A.M.” 

“I found the burrito quite palatable,” Spock said. 

Jim made a face. “Spock--”

“That would be acceptable,” Spock said. Jim was still talking. 

“Because I still kind of owe you for the whole Kh--Harrison thing, anyway, and...wait, what?” 

Spock scooted his chair a fraction of an inch closer to the table. “I accept your invitation,” he said. 

“Oh,” Jim said. “Oh! Well. Good! That’s good.” He appeared relieved, as if he had passed some sort of test. 

“Are you quite sure you are well, Jim?” Spock asked finally. 

“I’m fine,” Jim said, slapping the table top. “Great, in fact.” He sat back, staring at Spock for a full fifteen seconds. Spock had the sudden urge to reach across the table, to reach for Jim. He folded his hands in his lap, lacing his fingers together with the oddly familiar sense that they were not to be trusted. 

“So lemme see,” Jim continued, pulling out his PADD and scrolling through the calendar with his forefinger. “I mean, it’s not like I’m overrun with responsibilities here or anything. We should probably be looking at your busy schedule, Commander...” 

“Are you available tomorrow evening?” Spock asked. 

Jim lowered his PADD. “If I wasn’t,” he said, “I am now.” 

Following his conversation with Jim--Spock was unsure whether or not to think of it as auspicious; he elected to reserve judgement--he returned to his office and sat in front of his computer monitor, staring at his warped reflection on the black screen. He had intended to write his astrophysics exam, but he found himself unable to focus his thoughts. It was disconcerting, though Spock could not feign ignorance of the cause. Jim’s face loomed large in his mind’s eye, his form slouching over the table in the mess as comfortably as it had the captain’s chair on the bridge of the _Enterprise_. He would surely occupy that seat again when the ship re-launched. Despite Jim’s anxiety to the contrary, Spock found himself unable to picture another outcome. His certainty perplexed him, as did the sense of reassurance he derived from the thought of Jim in command. _And you, at his side,_ supplied a voice in his head. 

Spock shook his head vigorously, hoping to rouse himself from this ill-advised reverie. There was little to be gained from such thinking. Barring extraordinary events, Starfleet’s conclusions regarding Jim’s fitness for command could not be influenced one way or another, least of all by the imaginings of one distracted Vulcan. Spock turned his attention to his work with the fleeting thought that he had perhaps been unduly influenced by his elder counterpart. The man seemed somewhat prone to what Spock could only deem illogical flights of fancy. He sincerely hoped that this was not an inevitable consequence of the aging process. 

He had made his way through half of the exam questions when he recalled the peculiar incident of the previous night. Spock attributed this lapse in recall to inadequate sleep, and did not chastise himself unduly, but when he reflected on the incident he found himself becoming increasingly concerned. His mind cast back to the beginning of the Harrison incident, what Jim had seen from the blown-out window of the ruined conference room: a man disappearing in a phosphorescent whirl of particles, abandoning a shuttle in midair like a child discarding a toy.

Spock opened his email client and composed a message to Dr. McCoy and Lieutenant Commander Scott. After a moment’s pause, he elected to copy Jim as well, though he estimated only a 40% chance the message would be read.

***

Nyota set down the list of long-range transponder logs with a groan. She ran a hand across her face. “Now I know why they give these to the xenoling cadets,” she muttered to herself. She looked around her at the piles of boxes still stacked nearly wall to wall in the cramped office. Nyota hated moving, and the thought of packing all this crap back up to move onto the ship in less than a year made her want to run screaming from the room. Eventually, the mess would drive her crazy, and she’d unpack just in time to get their assignment and do it all over again. That was how the world worked. She’d carved out a little space for a desk, and she was sitting there now, hunched over in the too-bright room. Maybe she could rearrange the boxes so they stacked in front of the window; then she’d be in a real bat cave. _Damn you, Jim Kirk_ , she thought as she rubbed at her throbbing temples. She was getting too old for this shit, and she was never going out on a weeknight ever again.

What she _was_ going to do was go home at 1700 on the dot, replicate something bland and comforting for dinner, and take a stupidly long bubble bath. And then she was going to go to bed and sleep for at least 10 hours, and Spock could come or not. Something about the massive olive-green bags under his eyes this morning told her the statistical likelihood of his joining her was high. She wasn’t going to say I told you so, though. He didn’t deserve it. Nyota sighed. Thinking about Spock and Jim made her headache worse. You could smell the trauma on them a mile away. Spock just chose to deal with his in less obviously self-destructive ways. Well, if you overlooked the whole firey death in a volcano thing. But in general, Spock’s high-functioning veneer meant he got away with it for longer, even with her. _That’s what happened on Nibiru_ , she thought. _I just...let it get away from me._

“You could enlist a cadet to assist with unpacking,” Spock said from the doorway, standing there as if her thoughts had conjured him. She couldn’t stop herself from startling. His brow furrowed. “Did I surprise you?” 

She nodded. “It’s okay,” she said. “I was just thinking about you, actually.” 

“Ah,” Spock said. He didn’t ask her to elaborate. “I trust I’m not disturbing you?” 

“No, just going over these logs. And yes, I know I can get the cadets to help with them too, and I’m sure I will eventually. Right now I’m still fresh enough to want to do everything myself.” 

“Do you think administrative work suits you?” Spock asked. 

She wrinkled her nose. “C’mon, are you serious? I strong-armed you into assigning me to the _Enterprise_ , remember? That wasn’t just because she’s pretty, Spock. I _want_ to be out there, out in deep space.” She held up her PADD, indicating the logs. “I want to send these from the field, not sit here at my comfy desk on Earth analyzing them.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her, the corner of his mouth quirking up just slightly. She felt warmth bloom in her belly. She grinned wide as if for both of them. 

“We are of a mind, then,” he said softly. He was quiet for a moment. “I have scheduled a meeting with Mr. Scott tomorrow at 1000, to discuss the refit,” he said. He sounded almost eager, she thought. It made her smile again. “You are, of course, welcome to join us.” 

“I’m glad you’re going,” she said. “But you’ll have to report back; I’m guest-lecturing to a class of first years on the lesser-known Romulan dialects.” She made a face, but in truth she was looking forward to it. There were always one or two, in a class like that. She’d recognize them like she was looking back in time at herself, eyes bright and stylus moving feverishly, brain tripping over verbs and tenses. Like the universe was expanding in all directions at a million light years a second, and if she could only write it all down, _know_ it all, she could-- 

Spock was staring at her. She shook her head a little, coming back to herself. “Is the captain going? Tomorrow, I mean?” 

He gave her a strange look. “I believe so,” he said. “Though I should confirm it. He has lately been remiss in responding to messages.” He bit his lower lip, as if considering something. He straightened his hem. 

“What’s up?” she asked. He looked like he wanted to say something obnoxious about the colloquialism, but he didn’t. 

“Nyota,” he said, “I...the captain has invited me to dine with him tomorrow evening.” 

“Okay,” she said. “That’s cool. I was going to meet up with Gaila after work, anyway, so we can just touch base later.”

Spock nodded, although she got the distinct impression he hadn’t heard a word she said. “I do not know Jim’s purpose,” he said carefully. “But I must admit to considering our meeting more than merely collegial in nature.” 

“Okay,” she said. “Can you be a little more specific?” She somehow doubted that Spock was cornering her in her office in the middle of the workday to confess that he wanted to be friends with Jim. Although knowing Spock, that might not be entirely out of the realm of possibility. 

“As I said, I cannot be absolutely sure of Jim’s intentions, but I suspect that his invitation might fall under the parameters of what is colloquially termed a ‘date’. Upon reflection, I find myself increasingly in favor of this possibility.”

Should she be surprised? She wasn’t really surprised. Huh. “So...what you’re saying is that Jim asked you out to dinner, and it might be a date, but you don’t know for sure. But you _want_ it to be a date.” 

Spock’s ears turned green, and Nyota’s stomach flip-flopped. Yet, still not really surprised, she thought. Spock kind of looked like he was going to puke. “Maybe you’d better sit down,” she said. 

“Yes,” Spock said absently. He sank down on a box, elbows resting on his knees. He seemed overlarge in the cramped space, all angles. She had a sudden flash of what he must have looked like as a teenager, and wanted to laugh. She bit the inside of her cheek; somehow she doubted that would go over well. 

“So,” she said. “Talk.” 

“I should begin by saying that my...affection towards you has not diminished, or altered in any way,” Spock said. “Indeed, I believe that is why I find myself so...” 

_Bewildered?_ she thought. _Because that’s how you look._ She wanted to move closer to him, to touch him, but Spock didn’t always like to be touched when discussing emotions. It had been hard for her to get used to. She was now, mostly. 

He shook his head. “I am at a loss,” he said, looking up at her. 

“Spock,” she said. “It’s okay. Just talk to me.” 

“I feel for you,” he said quietly, the green in his face deepening. “I feel for you quite deeply. I believe I told you as much on the shuttle to Qo’Nos.” She nodded, and he continued. 

“My understanding of my relationship with Jim was...evolving at the time of his death,” Spock said. “I regret that it was not until I saw him before me, life ebbing from his body, that I fully understood what he felt, what I...felt towards him. I was his friend, Nyota,” he said, and the shock in his tone was so clear that it made Nyota want to cry. Already the tears pricked at her eyes, hot and stinging. Jim had been so still when she got to engineering. Scotty wouldn’t let her close enough to see, not really, and whether he’d held her back for her benefit or his own, Nyota didn’t really know. She’d fought him, at first, wanted to pull away and run to the glass and _see_ , and maybe it was better that she hadn’t. Because she saw it in Spock’s eyes, sometimes, and it was haunting. 

“You _are_ his friend,” she said softly. She went over and knelt next to him on the floor, reached out and took his hand. 

Spock nodded slowly, turning his hand over and lacing their fingers together, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. “I felt such anger,” he said. “I would have killed Khan without a second thought. That I could feel such emotion, such unchecked rage on Jim’s behalf--” He shook his head. “It was...unexpected,” he said. “It has been difficult to reconcile.” 

She sighed, looking away. “Because it’s messy,” she said. “Love is messy. It makes you angry, sometimes, and it makes you sad, and you can’t just...you can’t just decide not to feel it.” _We’ve been over this, a thousand fucking times._ “Even if you think you can. Even if you’re...you.” She reached up and traced the point of his ear with a fingertip. 

“Love?” Spock said. 

She sighed. “Go to dinner with Jim,” she said. “See what he has to say about all this.” 

“I do not--” 

“Shh,” she said. She ran her finger over his ear again, and Spock shuddered. She grinned, maybe a little wickedly. “I’m tired,” she said. “And I’m sick of transponder logs. Let’s go home.” 

She didn’t end up taking that bubble bath. When they got back to Spock’s, she went into the bedroom. She stood in front of the mirror and took off her earrings, set them down on top of the dresser like she did every time, like they belonged there. He stepped up behind her and she closed her eyes, shivering as he unzipped her dress and reached a hand inside as the sheath of fabric loosened. He wrapped an arm around her waist, turning her, and as her body moved the dress fell to the floor and pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it, into his arms. 

“Nyota,” he murmured into her neck, and she pushed him lightly toward the bed. 

He was still fully dressed, a tall column of black. She liked him that way sometimes, liked the way she could make him a little desperate, make him come undone despite the uniform. When he couldn’t take it anymore he would pull at his collar, the buttons, like he’d forgotten how they worked. He’d make an exasperated, pained little noise that drove her crazy. His face was pale against the sheets. They were grey. The whole place was grey. Someone should talk to Spock’s interior decorator, she thought a little hysterically. She leaned down, kissing his neck up to his jaw and over to his mouth. They were close now, faces pressed together skin to skin, and if she concentrated she could feel him. His thoughts were diffuse; her psi ratings were okay, but she couldn’t tell much, just that he was a little confused, maybe, and very turned on. But you didn’t have to be a telepath to know that, she thought as she straddled his supine form, undoing his fly with one hand. With the other, she held her panties to one side and when she’d gotten his cock out she sank down onto him without pretense. 

He cried out, and she felt something twist victoriously inside of her, something she probably shouldn’t be proud of. But fuck, it felt good, and she decided she didn’t care. He slid his hands up to grip her hips, let her lean forward and grind against him until she was close, sweaty and gasping, the elastic of her underwear biting into her sides. She leaned forward then, freeing his hips to fuck up into her in long strokes as he buried his face at her shoulder and bit just hard enough, muttering into her skin. 

When she came it was sudden enough to surprise her. She half-collapsed on top of Spock, scrabbling at the sheets with one hand, and then she was crying, hot fat tears, and _fuck_ , why did she have to be crying? She cursed in Klingon, which felt appropriately nasty and fit the pissed-off scrape in her throat. Spock jerked his hips one more time, but then he abandoned the effort. He stilled and slid out of her. She rolled off to lie next to him, staring up at the ceiling and listening to his breathing come back to normal. 

“You are angry,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Nyota said. 

“I am sorry,” he said. “I regret--”

“It’s all right,” she said, sighing. “Well, it’s not, but it will be. Probably.” 

“That is...imprecise. If your purpose is reassurance, I cannot deem your effort successful.” 

She rolled over onto her side. He did the same, so that they were face to face. “Like I said before,” she said. “Love is messy. And I don’t know, Spock, ours has been...pretty neat so far, considering.” She reached across the space between them and combed at his hair with her fingers. He reached up and caught her hand, bit his lower lip reflexively. “It’s been easy for you to deal with,” she continued. And wasn’t that the crux of it? She’d molded her own feelings that way, into neat compartments that were easily sorted, easily digestible. Fit for Vulcan consumption, she thought a little bitterly. 

_Sometimes I want to rip the bangs off his forehead._

A little violent, maybe. But now, as then, she understood the sentiment.

***

“Jim?”

Jim looked up. His Starfleet-mandated psychologist leaned forward on the opposite couch, brow furrowed. Her name was Helen Noel, and she was pretty cool. It wasn’t her fault that he was probably the worst patient ever. 

“You’ve been staring into your coffee cup since you got here,” she continued. “Which was thirty minutes ago.” 

“Oh,” he said. “Um, sorry.” 

Dr. Noel sighed. “Look, ordinarily I’d tell you that these are your sessions, and you’re free to use this time any way you feel is helpful,” she said. “But you and I are are both beholden to someone else, here, and while it pains me to say this, Jim, it’s in your best interest to talk to me.” 

Jim made a frustrated noise. He set his coffee down on the table and let his head fall into his hands. “Talk about what, my feelings?” He kept his eyes on the floor, but he could practically feel her eyeroll. It reminded him of Spock, actually, and fuck if that didn’t make him smile. Goddammit. 

“So here’s a thing,” he said, looking up at her. “I think I asked a guy out on a date yesterday.” 

“Oh?” Dr. Noel’s face was neutral, which Jim was taking as a testament to professionalism, since he probably looked crazed. There had been a lot of pacing and drinking and not a lot of sleeping the night before. She took up her PADD. “And this is unusual for you?” she asked. 

“The guy part? Well, it’s been awhile, sure, but that’s not really so unusual, no.” 

“Is it the date part, then? Or is it...the particular guy?” 

He laughed a little at that. “I guess you could say it’s both,” he said. 

“Do you know him well?” 

“We’ve...we’ve been through a lot together. Especially lately,” Jim said. “He was there,” he said. “With the whole...with the Harrison thing. Look, if I talk to you about, um, chain of command stuff--”

“Patient privilege,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, there are parameters, but your personal relationships wouldn’t typically fall under them.” 

“Good,” Jim said absently. He rubbed his eyes. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” he said. “I don’t even think I knew what I was asking until I was doing it, you know? And he said yes--well, agreed to dinner, I guess. I have no idea what how he feels--what he thinks about any of this, and he has this devastatingly amazing girlfriend who could probably kill me with her mind, and _what the hell am I doing?_ ” 

“Overthinking,” Dr. Noel said. “Not that I recommend ignoring the girlfriend part; you should definitely figure that one out as soon as possible. Just, you know, going on record.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Jim said. 

“I also don’t think you should discount the possibility that you’re taking this huge ball of emotion--everything that’s happened recently--and sublimating it into one person instead of dealing with it.” 

Jim laughed nervously. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” 

“Just calling it like I see it,” she said. “And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen someone respond to trauma this way.” 

“Trauma? I think that’s a pretty dramatic way of putting it,” Jim said, maybe a little too easily. Helen fixed him with a long look, and Jim fought the urge to squirm in his seat. 

“Is it, Jim?” She sighed again, glancing at her chrono. “One of these days, you’re going to talk to me about Chris Pike,” she said. “But today, our time’s just about up.” 

Jim tried not to look too excited to leave Dr. Noel’s office. He really tried. But...speaking of dates, he had one right now with his number-one girl. It was all he could do not to sprint to the shuttle that would ferry him up there, up to her berth in the stars. 

Scotty was there to meet him in the shuttle bay. Spock was already on board, standing next to Scotty, looking severe as ever. Jim thought he saw Spock’s features soften when he stepped out of the shuttle, but he couldn’t be sure. _Probably projecting_ , he thought. See, he was learning something in therapy after all. But as they left the shuttle bay and made for engineering, Scotty chattering happily about the reinforced bulkheads, there was no denying the way Spock turned to Jim and caught his eye, no denying the current of rightness that seemed to sweep the three of them along the corridor. When Scotty’s voice caught a little on a description of the revised warp core containment system, all Jim could do was look at Spock and smile, bursting with gratitude for a universe that seemed to want him in it a little while longer. 

The feeling persisted through the rest of their tour of the ship. The refit would take a year, plus or minus a few months. “I’m doing my level best to get her out of space dock as soon as possible, sir,” Scotty said. “But make no mistake, we’re not moving a centimeter until the _Enterprise_ is 110% sound.” 

Jim clapped him on the shoulder. “Good call,” he said, swallowing a reflexive sense of disappointment. A year felt like forever. And then there was the fact that Scotty seemed to take it for granted that they were even getting a deep-space mission in the first place. _And that you’ll still be captain,_ his inner monologue supplied helpfully. “Fuck off,” Jim muttered under his breath, and Spock shot him an appraising look. 

“Did you say something, Captain?” 

“Um, no. Just talking to myself.” Great, he thought. Because that’s definitely something that sane and healthy starship captains do. But his explanation seemed to appease Spock, because he just nodded and turned back to Scotty to ask him something about the thruster modifications he and Sulu had apparently been discussing. Jim felt a spike of relief. He vaguely recalled being copied on some of those emails. He could definitely get behind some beefed-up thrusters, as it were. 

Jim’s relief lasted him the rest of the day, conveniently deciding to leave him in the lurch about five minutes before Spock was supposed to meet him for dinner. To _pick him up_ for dinner, and holy God, on what planet was this not a date? Well, probably lots of them, but here on Earth Jim was totally screwed. 

He took to opening the door every thirty seconds or so and peering back and forth down the hallway, so that he ended up opening the door for Spock before he’d even rung the bell. He raised his eyebrow at Jim, one hand frozen in midair. 

“Hello,” Spock said. He was wearing civvies--human civvies. A suit and tie, and oh crap, Jim was so totally, totally screwed. 

He ran a hand through his hair. “Hey,” he said. He gestured at the interior of the apartment. “Let me just grab my jacket.” 

Spock nodded, stepping inside and looking around. Jim located his jacket, which was slung over the back of a chair, and spun around to face Spock with a burgeoning sense of panic. 

“What are we doing?” he blurted. 

“I was under the impression we were dining together,” Spock said dryly, though Jim felt rather than heard an undercurrent of...something else underneath the usual easy precision of Spock’s speech. 

Jim rolled his eyes. “You do that on purpose,” he said. “I mean...you know what I mean. I think.” 

Spock shifted from one foot to the other. “What were your intentions in inviting me to dinner tonight?” he asked. Jim wanted to laugh at the sheer incongruity of the question. He bit his lip instead.

Jim looked at the floor. “I don’t really know,” he admitted. “It’s been...it’s been weird since we got back,” he said, looking back up at Spock. His expression was as neutral as ever, maddeningly so, and Jim had the sudden urge to touch him, to try and mess him up a little. 

“Please elaborate,” Spock said. 

“I don’t _know_ ,” Jim said, sounding more petulant than he meant to. “Don’t you feel it? It’s been there since I woke up in the hospital. It’s...it’s been there since before that. You stayed with me the other night when the others left,” he said. “When you look at me sometimes, it’s like you’re trying to figure something out, and I just...I want to know what. Because maybe if _you_ figure it out, then you can tell me.” He laughed uneasily. 

Two bright spots of green flared up in Spock’s cheeks, and in that moment Jim knew. Spock felt it too, whatever it was. 

“We should go,” Spock said. 

Jim exhaled. “Yeah,” he said. “I...I made a reservation.” 

Spock turned and moved toward the door. Before Jim could stop himself he reached out and caught him by the wrist, fingers closing on fabric and fumbling across the knob of Spock’s wrist bone. Spock froze, and Jim withdrew like he’d been burned. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just need to ask. Does Uhura--” 

Spock gave him a look that Jim could’ve sworn was just shy of amusement. “Do you really believe I would be standing here without Lieutenant Uhura’s approval?” he asked with what Jim hoped was mock reproach. 

Jim considered that for a second. “No,” he said. “I guess not.” He grinned. This was weird as hell, he thought. But he was also getting the distinct impression that it was going to be okay, somehow.

***

As soon as Gaila opened the door, Nyota’s senses were assailed with a blast of spice so strong it made her eyes water. Her stomach growled. After almost four years of Gaila’s cooking at the academy, she had a Pavlovian response to smelling Orion food.

“I’m so glad you came over,” Gaila said, clapping her hands together. “I can make it as hot as I want when it’s just the two of us.” She gestured to the pan simmering on the stove. Gaila was mostly skeptical of replicators. 

Nyota plunked a bottle of wine down on the counter and Gaila eyed it appreciatively, producing a pair of stemless glasses from a cabinet and pouring generously. “Cheers,” she said, handing Nyota one of them and immediately clinking it with her own. 

“To coming back,” Nyota said. 

Gaila nodded solemnly and took a sip. “Speaking of that,” she said, “I took a trip up to see the _Enterprise_ in spacedock today.” 

“Sounds like she was a popular destination,” Nyota said. “Spock and Captain Kirk were up there today too, going over the refit with Scotty.” 

“I saw Spock,” Gaila said. “Not Jimmy, though. I had a meeting with Keenser about some updates to the warp drives we’ve been working on; we were crawling around in the jeffries tubes for like an hour. Oh, don’t give me that look, Nyota, Keenser’s my _bro_.” 

“I don’t think that word means what you think it means. Anyway, what are you doing to the warp drive? Is it going to freak out the rest of engineering?” 

Gaila rolled her eyes. “If by ‘freak out’ you mean stun with the sheer magnitude of its genius, then yes,” she said. “Montgomery Scott coddles that ship of yours like it’s a baby sehlat. He could stand to chill out a little.” 

Her eyes lit up the way they always did when she talked shop, and Nyota took another sip of wine and leaned against the counter to listen. She found herself thinking that if Gaila’d been on board for that last nauseating tailspin toward the surface she might find it easier to see things from Scotty’s perspective. But that was getting dangerously close to wishing Gaila had been anywhere other than very, very far away from Khan and his handiwork, and that was not a line of thinking Nyota was at all interested in. That she’d been in San Francisco at all was bad enough. 

“You’re not listening to anything I’m saying,” Gaila said matter-of-factly. 

“I--what? Of course I am,” Nyota said automatically.

“No, you’re not,” Gaila said. “It’s okay, I’m not mad. But you’re like a couple parsecs away at least, so don’t bother denying it.” 

Nyota sighed, and took a sip of wine. It was pretty good, especially after a year of crap from the replicators. Forestalling the inevitable, she thought. She swallowed. 

“Fine,” she said. “But I want to go on record as saying that I did _not_ intend to come here tonight and unload about my problems. This was supposed to be fun, and--”

Gaila punched her in the arm. “Shut up, Nyota,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Now, tell me what’s going on.” 

“Okay,” she said, taking a breath. “What do you guess Spock’s doing, at this very moment?” 

An odd look crossed Gaila’s face, and so help her, if this wasn’t a surprise to Gaila, Nyota was going to drink the whole damn bottle of wine and then make Gaila buy her more. Gaila bit her lower lip and looked slightly uncomfortable.

“Remember that time we compiled all our awkward interactions from freshman year and wrote that paper for our cultural competency module?” Gaila said. 

Nyota nodded slowly, fighting the urge to cover her face with her hands. 

“I think this would’ve been great for that. I’m having a thought that I’d verbalize if you were Orion, but since you’re not, and we’ve been over this--”

“You know what, how about you don’t guess,” Nyota said. “Spock is out on a date with Jim Kirk.” 

Gaila looked like she wanted to clap her hands, but instead she made a show of literally sitting on them and looked at Nyota with a somewhat constipated expression. 

“Permission to speak freely, Lieutenant,” Nyota said.

“I’m sorry!” Gaila said. “It’s just that my first thought was a very explicit image, and then I realized that might not be...sensitive to your feelings about the situation.” Nyota couldn’t remember exactly, but she thought Gaila might be quoting this last phrase directly from their paper. 

“So how _do_ you feel about the situation?” Gaila asked. 

“I don’t know,” Nyota said. “Weird? Kind of--no, really pissed at Spock, even though that’s kind of irrational and he was totally up front about the whole thing.” She sighed again. “And it’s not as if he can help the way he feels. I mean, if it were up to him he wouldn’t feel anything, so...” She shook her head. He face was doing that awful twitchy thing it did when she was about to cry. Gaila opened her mouth, but Nyota held up a hand to forestall her. 

“I’m fine,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “And I don’t need your lecture on the starvation economy theory of love, either.”

Gaila rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said. “Look, just because I don’t get how humans are about this stuff doesn’t mean I don’t respect how you feel about it. Just saying that I wouldn’t kick either of them out of bed, and if I were in your shoes, I’d be putting some stipulations into place ASAP. Sexy stipulations, if you know what I mean. ‘Mandatory threesome every Friday’ kind of stipulations.” 

“Yeah, I was pretty clear on what you meant,” Nyota said. “I don’t know, Gaila. Who knows how this is going to play out, in the end. I don’t know what Spock wants, what Jim even thinks about me--I mean, I think we’re friends, but beyond that...” She shook her head. “And forget what they want, I don’t even know what I want.” 

“Well, neither do I,” Gaila said, shrugging. “But I’d rather sort through my existential uncertainty with two hot dudes, if I had to choose. Just saying.” 

Nyota snorted. “Noted,” she said, staring into her glass thoughtfully. “So,” she said, after a moment. “Speaking of kicking people out of bed, on a scale of one to ten, how pissed were you that I booted Jim out of our room that time?” 

Gaila did something with her hips that was basically the Orion equivalent of the finger. “Ugh, like a thirteen,” she said. “And I hadn’t gotten laid in days, Nyota, _days _! I still remember the exquisite torment of a thorough cock-blocking. And you’re supposed to be my friend!”__

__Nyota threw back her head and laughed, deep and throaty, for what felt like the first time in forever. “Well,” she said when she’d finally recovered, “I’m clearly going to have to think about this Jim Kirk situation.”_ _

__“Think long and hard, Nyota,” said Gaila. _“Long and hard.”__ _

__...At which point Nyota promptly spat wine all over herself, and as the two of them dabbed water on her blouse in fits of giggles, she declared a moratorium on all talk of Kirk and Spock for the duration of the evening. Which turned out to be a good idea, because Gaila wasn’t kidding about the food being spicy. Nyota thought she’d be lucky to get her tongue around some of the more sibilant accents in High Andorian ever again._ _

__“You know,” Gaila said later, when they’d finished the meal and the bottle and sat around full and relatively content on the couch, “you’re wrong about Spock, you know that, right?”_ _

__Nyota raised a quizzical eyebrow at her._ _

__“When you said he’d rather not feel anything.”_ _

__“How do you know?” Nyota asked. Her head felt cottony with wine and sadness, and suddenly she wanted to sleep._ _

__Gaila shrugged. “I’m not Vulcan, obviously,” she said. “I’m like, the opposite of Vulcan. But I think I know Spock a little, after all this time, and I don’t think...I don’t think he’d wish for that. Not if it meant messing things up with you.”_ _

__She looked past Gaila to her reflection in the window, a wan ghost girl who looked like she knew way more than Nyota ever could. “You know he cried, when Jim died?” she said quietly. She shook her head. “He thinks I don’t know. Maybe it’d be better if I didn’t.” She made a face. “Ugh, listen to me,” she said. “I’ve gotta get out of here before I turn you off humans for life.”_ _

__“Not possible, girl,” Gaila said, resting her head on Nyota’s shoulder. “There’s just something about you weirdos that keeps me coming back for more.” She grinned. “C’mon, let’s call you a cab.”_ _

____

***

“You’re drinking pink wine,” Jim said. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“It’s called rosé,” Spock said, not a little archly. His fingers curled protectively around the stem of his glass. Jim’s hand rested on the table a mere 5.08 centimeters away.

Predictably, Jim rolled his eyes. “I know what rosé is,” he said. “Even if I was raised in a barn. I’ll have you know I can appreciate the finer things in life with the best of them.” 

“As evidenced by your choice of venue,” Spock said, indicating the restaurant around them. It was all warm woods, white tablecloths, and troops of fat little candles clustered in the centers of the tables. Spock had been slightly abashed at his reaction upon arrival, and found himself hoping Jim had in no way sensed his surprise. He speared an asparagus stalk with his fork and took a bite. He swallowed, feeling strangely conscious of every move. Jim’s eyes were on Spock’s throat. Spock watched Jim watch him, until his eyes darted up and met Spock’s and Jim’s cheeks flushed pink. Spock found he liked it, but perhaps that was the wine. 

“This asparagus is delicious,” he said. 

“What? Oh, right,” Jim said. His face reddened further. “Yeah, it’s great here. Best asparagus I’ve ever eaten.” Jim had ordered steak frites, the only green on his plate a few flecks of parsley sprinkled over the top. 

“No, but seriously,” he said. “Next time I’ll take you to the opera. It’ll be like a culture bomb. Like, boom. So much culture.” 

“Are you all right?” Spock said. “You sound...strange.” This in itself sounded strange, Spock thought. To inquire after Jim’s well-being in such familiar terms was unprecedented. 

“I’m fine,” Jim said. “And before you say that that has variable definitions or something, it’s good fine, not bad fine,” he added, holding up a hand. “And yes, bad fine is a thing.” 

Spock nodded. He was familiar with bad fine. In his experience, it often coincided with early mornings following particularly raucous festivities, or encoded Romulan transmissions, or something erroneous he had done. Most likely, Jim had his own definitions, and the thought that Spock might one day know them as well left him at somewhat of a loss. _A good loss,_ he wanted to say, though he didn’t quite know why.

He decided the logical course of action was to take another sip of wine, and then another, and to order another glass in lieu of dessert. He drank it methodically while watching Jim devour a large piece of cheesecake with his customary enthusiasm. Which was how Spock got rather unceremoniously drunk, despite both good intentions and the apparently mistaken belief that inebriation was physically impossible. 

“Vulcans are immune to the effects of alcohol,” he said as he lurched against Jim in the foyer of the restaurant. 

“Sure thing, buddy,” Jim said, patting Spock on the back. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and they stepped out into the night. “Whoops, there’s a step here; there we go.” 

“I am perfectly capable of walking under my own power,” Spock said when they were on the sidewalk. Nonetheless, he decided against moving from Jim’s side, however unnecessary their physical proximity. 

“Two glasses of wine,” Jim said, grinning at him. “What a lightweight.” He narrowed his eyes, as if considering something, and then let go of his hold on Spock’s shoulder to trail a hand down his sleeve and brush their fingers together. It was electric, a thrill between them. No matter how much Spock might once have wished to deny or misattribute this spill of feeling, he found he could do so no longer. Alcohol throbbed heavy in his head, blunting his controls, and as Jim leaned closer Spock could see the pulse of blood under his jaw, life carrying blithely on with no regard for the stutter and stop of hearts. Spock took hold of the front of Jim’s shirt, fingers scrabbling at the cotton and uncareful of buttons. 

“Hey,” Jim murmured.

“I wish to kiss you,” Spock said. He should have been embarrassed by the boldness of his statement, but he found he did not care. “It appears my capacity for inhibition and judgement has been somewhat reduced,” he said. 

Jim laughed softly. “Yeah, that happens,” he said, and his mouth was suddenly so close, and he was still laughing when Spock kissed him. 

“God, this is weird,” Jim said when they parted. 

“Am I correct in assuming it is ‘good weird?’” Spock said, raising an eyebrow at Jim. His intoxication seemed to ebb, the heady feeling giving way to both reestablished control and an attendant pang of uncertainty. 

Jim smiled (“Totally good weird, Mr. Spock,”) and Spock was entirely too affected by that smile for this--any of this--to be at all advisable. But then Spock was historically predisposed to the inadvisable when it came to Jim Kirk, so he supposed the only logical course of action was to pull Jim deeper into the shadows at the side of the building, back him up to the brick and kiss him again. Spock had managed to insinuate a thigh between both of Jim’s. Jim was sliding his fingers along the inside of Spock’s collar as if threatening to loosen his tie, and they were both grinding against each other in what would have been distressingly close to public without the wine and the soft dark’s promises of seclusion. Then something caught Spock’s attention, perhaps a trick of the light or a raised voice, loud and just close enough to be too close, and almost instantaneously there came an answering querulousness across Jim’s skin. They stepped apart, Jim running a hand through his hair and Spock straightening his jacket, tightening his tie. 

Jim coughed. “So, I guess we should--”

“It is late; perhaps--” Spock said simultaneously. He gestured at Jim, indicating that he should continue. 

“Not that I’m not having a good time, because I am. I _really_ am. But...I’m thinking maybe we should quit while we’re ahead. For tonight, I mean,” Jim said, reaching for Spock’s hand again. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and Uhura, but I want...” He paused, looking down and taking a deep breath. “Whatever happens, I want things to be on the up and up,” he said. “You...you mean too much for things not to be. Both of you,” he said. 

“Nyota will be gratified to hear you hold her in such esteem,” Spock said. “And I feel that...despite potential protestation to the contrary, she would want you to know that the sentiment is reciprocated.” 

It was difficult to determine with certainty in the low light, but Spock thought Jim might be blushing again. “Hmm,” he said. “I’ll have to take your word for it for now, I guess.” He licked his lips. “And what about you?” he said. “What do you think?” 

Spock considered for a moment. He thought his opinion on the matter of the evening’s activities should have been self-evident, but then humans often seemed reassured by verbal acknowledgement. 

“Earlier this evening, you stated that you wished to understand the nature of what has changed between us,” Spock said. “That is my aim as well, both to ensure the continued efficacy of our command team, and for...for personal reasons. I have not, strictly speaking, ‘figured things out’. However, I believe tonight has been enlightening to that end, and I would like to continue to try.” 

“And Uhura?” 

Spock sighed. “I do not know,” he said. “Ideally--was the decision mine alone, which of course it cannot be, the status of our relationship would remain unchanged.” He looked at Jim, who was regarding him thoughtfully. “I care for her a great deal,” he said quietly. “You were present for our conversation on the shuttle to Qo’noS; I presume you remember my words then. My feelings on the matter have not wavered.” He bit his lip. “It would appear that they have merely...extended, to additional avenues. It is most perplexing.” 

Jim nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said, brow furrowed as if trying to work something out. “I always took you for something of a traditionalist, myself.” His face relaxed into an easy smile, and he shrugged. “But hey, sometimes it’s nice to be proven wrong.” 

“So you are amenable to furthering our personal relationship, with the caveat that Nyota will be...centrally involved?” Spock’s palms felt slick, a curious response given that he was not technically under physiological stress. 

Jim stepped closer. Spock’s heart rate was elevated as well. A memory surfaced, unbidden; the smooth ice-white bridge of the _Jellyfish_ , a truly life-threatening situation, and one in which Jim’s bearing was similarly imbued with an ease that seemed borne of something a lot like faith. 

“Well, I can’t tell you if it’ll all work out,” Jim said. “But if this is a long-winded way of asking me on a second date, you should know that I’m kind of easy. But not that way. Except, yes, kind of that way. Which is _my_ long-winded way of saying that...yes. I’m on board. Caveats and all.”

“Understood,” Spock said, and kissed Jim again.

After some deliberation about Spock’s degree of sobriety, he relinquished the keys to his hovercar. Jim whistled when he saw the insignia on the key fob, and whistled even louder when he saw Spock’s car. “Will you look at that,” Jim said. “That is one sexy, sexy vee, Spock.” 

“I will not inform the _Enterprise_ of your indiscretion,” Spock said. 

Jim waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, she knows where she stands,” he said. “I think we’re in an open relationship that includes, like, the entire bridge crew and most of engineering.” 

Spock elected to ignore this somewhat belabored metaphor. “Please drive carefully,” he said, and to Jim’s credit, he only exceeded the speed limit twice and did not make good on his promise to “really see what she can do on Lombard Street.” When they slowed to a stop outside Spock’s building, Jim put the vehicle in park and peered up at the pale concrete tower. It seemed to glow faintly in the moonlight. “So this is where you live,” he said. “I was getting kind of pissed that you hadn’t invited me over.” 

“I apologize,” Spock said. “I was unaware the location of my residence was important to you.” 

“You know what? I know this building,” Jim said. “Starfleet Medical’s like half a mile that way, right?” 

Spock nodded. 

“There’re these creepy gargoyles on the sides? Some kind of awful gothic re-revival thing? I used to stare at this building all the time when I was in the hospital, trying to figure out who’d live there.” 

“The view is excellent,” Spock said, feeling slightly affronted. “And one cannot see the gargoyles from inside.” He placed his hand carefully over Jim’s where it rested on the driver’s seat. “Its proximity to Starfleet Medical has also proven convenient, on occasion,” he said. They sat in silence for several minutes. Down the road, a street light flickered on and off, its on phases illuminating a haze of perturbed moths.

“If I did not communicate it sufficiently at the time,” Spock said softly, “I am very pleased that you are alive.” 

Jim’s mouth fell open, and Spock imagined that he could hear some manner of dismissively lighthearted retort dying on his tongue before he closed it again. “Thank you,” he said simply, twining their fingers together.

“Are you certain you can walk home from this location?” Spock said, when they had vacated the car and he stood before the door fumbling for his keycard. 

“Sure, no problem,” Jim said. “I’m actually not too far from here. But hey, you know that; you walked home from my place the other day.” 

Spock thought of kissing him again, and Jim did too from his expression. But they didn’t, in the end. Jim raised his hand in a stilted wave, laughing as if at the insufficiency of the gesture. Spock allowed himself the barest hint of a smile, at which Jim grinned broadly and deliriously before turning on his heel and walking off down the street. Spock did not move, but stood still in the dim light watching him go. 

“I’m going now before I invite myself in,” Jim called over his shoulder. “Just so you know.” 

“Goodnight,” Spock said, though it wasn’t loud enough for Jim to hear. He keyed himself into the building, thinking of nothing but Jim. Later, he would lament his lack of awareness of their surroundings. Yet he would still come to the disturbing conclusion that their parting could not have occurred any other way, that Jim would always have disappeared around the corner whistling to himself, leaving Spock grievously distracted in his wake.

***

Nyota’s comm chirped her awake, despite the fact that it was across the room. She slid from the bed to retrieve it, grumbling, and then flopped across the mattress widthwise to wrap herself in the blankets again and scroll through her messages. There were three marked urgent, hence the relentless chirping. The first was from Gaila, demanding _DETAILS ASAP PLEASE_ , at which Nyota rolled her eyes with as much affection as she could muster for this early on her day off. The second was from Spock, and she tried not to analyze the metadata on that one with limited success. _12:13 A.M._ , she thought. _Is that good or bad for a first date? It’s been a really long time since I’ve been on one of those._

_Home. Will comm tomorrow morning. Sleep well._

The third message was from Jim Kirk. 

Nyota swallowed. “Jesus,” she said aloud. “I need coffee to deal with this.” She stood poised with her finger over the message in her inbox for altogether too long before closing her eyes and mashing it hard, opening one eye to peek at it, which was completely ridiculous. But she somehow felt like Jim was right there, looking through the comm unit at her and possibly judging her reaction. 

_hey. so, looks like we should probably talk at some point soon? i’ll buy you coffee. or something stronger. let me know. --jtk_

_“JTK?”_ she said, rolling her eyes again. But if she was being honest, she couldn’t summon much of anything negative when she thought about Jim, other than a residual sense of horror at his death and subsequent resurrection that she was doing her level best to repress. Maybe she should’ve gotten Starfleet-mandated therapy, too. Hell, they’d probably all be better off with some professional intervention, even Spock. Maybe especially Spock. 

She looked back at her comm, staring at Jim’s message like the letters would somehow rearrange themselves into an appropriate response, somewhere between “step off my man” and “Gaila thinks we should just cut to the chase and fuck, y/n?” In the end, she kept it simple. 

_Sure. I’m free any night next week._

She decided that was maybe a little terse, and added a follow up text as a coda. 

_And hell yes you’re buying._

She made a disgusted noise, feeling fed up with communication of all stripes for the time being. She waited to return Spock’s comm until after she’d taken a shower and actually had that cup of coffee, and even then she relocated from the kitchen to the bedroom and back to the kitchen again before finally biting the bullet and hitting reply. 

“Spock here.” He sounded like he was doing two things at once. Knowing Spock it was probably more like three to five things. 

“Hey,” she said. 

“Hello,” he said, voice softening.

She could hear his tone shift, focus. She’d always admired that about him, that laser focus he could just train like a tractor beam. It was one of the things that won her over, once upon a time. Because she didn’t think Spock knew he did it; it was just intrinsic, and it turned out that having that kind of attention paid to you was nothing short of intoxicating. 

“Are you well, this morning?” It was a light question, easy, but Nyota didn’t think she was imagining the tinge of tension there. 

“Yeah, I am, actually,” she said. “How about you?” 

“I am adequate,” he said. “I awoke this morning to the news that one of the cadets has had some manner of accident in the chemistry labs, and while no one was injured, I fear the damaged equipment will prove quite costly to replace.” 

Nyota snorted. 

“Do you find that amusing?” 

“No, of course not,” she said, smiling at her comm. “But I was thinking more about your...personal life. Specifically, last night. How that might have affected your well-being.” 

Spock was quiet for a minute. She could hear him breathing into the comm. She tried to imagine what his face looked like when he thought about Jim, about whatever had happened between them. 

“Ah,” he said. “I factored my dinner with Captain Kirk--with Jim--into my overall status. When averaged with the negative response associated with the lab accident--”

“You are so weird,” Nyota said, laughing.

“I am accurate,” Spock said primly. 

“So,” she said. “if Jim and the lab disaster averaged out to adequate, I’m going to assume you had a good time.” 

“‘Good’ is an...accurate descriptor,” Spock said. “Though imprecise.” 

“Are you sure you want to _get_ precise with me about this?” 

“Would you prefer I did not disclose specific details?” 

“Yes? No? I don’t really know, honestly,” she said. “I’m conflicted.” 

“You desire information, but are unsure whether gaining that information is wise,” Spock said. 

“Exactly,” she said. 

“Are you concerned such knowledge might provoke an emotional response?” Spock asked. 

Nyota sighed. “Pretty much,” she said. “I know it doesn’t make sense--”

“On the contrary,” Spock said. “I find I can relate to your indecision. I have occasionally attempted to avoid that which might result in unwanted emotion, depending on my perceived ability to address it at the time.” 

“I think there’s a psychological term for that,” she said, smiling wearily into her comm. 

“I would question the relevance of your human psychology as applied to the Vulcan mind,” he countered. It felt familiar, going back and forth with him like this. She liked it. 

“Of course you would,” Nyota said. “Listen, let’s do this in person, okay? When are you done dealing with the lab fiasco?”

Now it was Spock’s turn to sigh. It was barely perceptible over the phone, but it was there, a pause and then a shallow huff of breath down the comm. “Vulcans do not believe in luck,” he said, “but if we did, the application of such would likely render me free to meet with you by perhaps...1600 hours.” 

“Well,” she said, “hopefully I can be lucky for both of us.” 

He came over at 1700, bearing two large white bags that smelled greasy and amazing. Some people might have brought flowers, Nyota thought, but who needed flowers when you could have Thai-Andorian fusion from the corner dive that knew her order cold?

“Oh, you know the way back onto a girl’s good side,” she said appreciatively as she relieved Spock of the food and set it on the counter. Spock flushed green and said nothing, retrieving a pair of plates from the kitchen cabinet and leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. She poured herself a glass of white, tipping the bottle at Spock, who waved her off. She took a sip. 

“Okay,” she said, swallowing. “So, I had a message from Jim on my comm this morning.” 

Spock made an odd choking sound, like he’d swallowed his mouthful of Tom Kha Gai too quickly, and green bloomed in his cheeks again. “I suppose it is not uncharacteristic of him to elect to contact you directly,” he said. “Indeed, last night he expressed a desire to maintain an atmosphere of trust and open communication, although he did not use that specific phrasing.” 

“What phrasing did he use, exactly?” 

“I believe ‘on the up and up’” was the expression,” Spock said. 

Nyota nodded slowly. “You know, Jim’s good people,” she said, sighing. “Say what you will about him--and I’ve said plenty, believe me--he just...he tries. He tries in the ways that matter.” 

“Yes,” Spock said quietly. “He does.” They sat in silence for awhile, save the sounds of forks scraping plates and the clink of ice in their water glasses. It felt...normal, Nyota thought, like just another night with Spock, the easy sweetness hanging in the room like incense. 

“Are you thinking about him?” she asked presently. She couldn’t help it. Maybe she was testing that sense of normalcy, poking at it like a wound mostly healed, wondering if it would hold. 

“Do you wish for me to answer honestly?” Spock replied carefully. He ran his forefinger through the condensation collected on his water glass.

She exhaled. “So that’s a yes, then,” she said. Spock looked at her with a guarded expression. 

“Nyota,” he said. “You have been remarkably understanding in your approach to this revelation on my part. I would like to state that it has by no means gone unnoticed or unappreciated.” 

She smiled at him. “I’m trying,” she said. “But I’m in uncharted territory too, here, and it’s...kind of a lot to wrap my head around.” 

“I believe I can relate,” Spock said, almost wryly. “Jim, however, appeared unphased by the somewhat unusual circumstances.” 

“Why am I not surprised,” Nyota said. She drained her wine glass and gestured at Spock’s empty plate. “More?” she asked. He shook his head. 

She rose, carrying the plates to the sink. “Do you think he’s doing okay?” she asked. “I mean, you’ve probably seen him more than anyone else since he...since he woke up. You know how I feel about it, but who knows.” She shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong, and it’s perfectly normal for him to go out partying all night every night and, y’know, try to hook up with his first officer.” 

Spock tensed at this last statement. It was subtle, but it was there. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean--”

“Do not apologize,” Spock said. “I cannot say that I haven’t attempted to consider Jim’s motivation with a somewhat jaundiced eye,” he said. “However, I fear...I fear that I am unable to be completely certain of my own objectivity.” His shoulders slumped. 

“Have you heard from him today?” 

“I have not,” Spock said, poking at his comm as he spoke. Throughout the meal, it had lain conspicuously next to his plate, and now Spock looked at it as though willing it to respond. It was such a strikingly human gesture that she felt slightly disoriented watching it, and not a little sympathetic. 

“Come to think of it,” Nyota said, “I replied to his message and I don’t think he’s written me back yet either. I agreed to meet up, so yeah, I guess that’s going to happen.” 

“Should I request that you leave your phaser at home?” 

“My phaser is Starfleet issue and lives in the armory on the ship,” she said. “But I did pass my physical tactics tests with highest honors, and that stuff’s pretty ingrained at this point. So, no promises, sorry. But I’ll try to leave his pretty face intact. I’m _kidding_ ,” she said to Spock’s slightly stricken expression.

“Of course,” he said. He didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“Speaking of the ship, tell me about your meeting with Scotty,” she said. She got the distinct impression that she could either change the subject now or try to convince Spock that Jim would comm, and she had absolutely no idea how that conversation would go. 

For his part, Spock also seemed relieved to talk about something else, because he launched into a detailed summary of the improvements Scotty was making in various areas. “I spoke with Lieutenant Gaila briefly,” he said. “Although as I did so, Lieutenant Keenser would not stop affixing me with what I can only term a glare. I should review the cultural competency guidelines for Roylans, as I may have committed a misstep. I suspect they are lacking.” 

“Oh, I think Gaila might be able to contribute,” Nyota said. 

“Are you making an insinuation?” Spock asked. “Your tone of voice indicates you believe Gaila to possess a personal understanding of interaction with Lieutenant Keenser’s species, perhaps gleaned from sexual encounters.” 

“Well, they apparently spent quite a while in the jeffries tubes together the other day, so whatever kind of personal understanding that gets you.” 

“If they are amenable, they should contact Personnel Resources and suggest an addition to the Interspecies Relations manual,” Spock said. “It would be greatly appreciated, I’m sure.” 

“I’ll ask her about it next time I see her,” Nyota said. “To be fair, she was a little vague on the exact nature of their relationship. But she said they were working on some improvements to the warp drives.” She sighed. “She should just request a transfer onto the ship,” she said. “Jim would approve it in a heartbeat. Even if they weren’t friends, Gaila still has him by the balls over the whole _Kobayashi Maru_ thing.” 

“I concur,” Spock said. “She would be a valuable addition to the engineering staff.” 

“Do we have a launch date? I wasn’t just saying all that about wanting to get out from behind a desk, you know.” 

“Regrettably, we have neither an exact date nor an assignment,” Spock said. “The Captain still hopes to be assigned a deep-space exploratory mission, though I believe he is concerned that the admiralty will choose to send the _Enterprise_ elsewhere.” 

“Because of the hearing?” 

Spock gave her a look that would definitely have been an eyeroll from anyone else. “Nyota,” he said, “to what hearing are you referring? We attended a _non-disciplinary meeting_.” 

She snorted. She’d never say it to his face, but she thought Spock was getting to be pretty damn adept at sarcasm, illogical as it might be. She thought of Gaila’s face the other night, her incredulous laughter when Nyota suggested she’d tire of humans. _There’s just something about you weirdos that keeps me coming back for more._

“Sure you did,” she said. “Because why would you discipline the captain of the ship that brought down John Harrison? You’d just...politely inquire as to his mental health, and give him a time out to get over his nasty case of exhaustion. Seriously, Spock, you really think they bought that?” 

Spock looked away, back at his comm, which remained stubbornly silent. “I do not know,” he said. “Both Dr. McCoy and I believe that Starfleet’s continued insistence on publicizing the Khan incident as an isolated act of terror is compatible with their decision to place Jim on leave and eventually reinstate him, rather than to further investigate the circumstances. I do not know how successful we were in containing what truly occurred--likely, not entirely so. However, as long as my report dovetails with Starfleet’s preferred version of events, I do not believe the admiralty have sufficient reason to alter their decision.” 

“Funny, that,” she said. “How someone can have such a change of heart about what’s acceptable to write up in a report.” 

“I believe ‘change of heart’ to be a term rooted in human emotion, and thus inapplicable to me,” Spock said. His tone was mild, though, and the corners of his lips quirked just slightly upward. She’d take it. She’d learned to take it, four years on. 

They spent the rest of the evening on the couch, Nyota curled up with her PADD resting on her knees. Her feet were bare, and when her toes got cold she slid her feet across the cushion to where Spock sat, his posture considerably more upright. She tunneled her toes down between the couch and his leg. 

“You’re warm,” she said to his questioning look. 

“Would you like a pair of socks?” he asked. 

“Nope,” she said. 

Spock returned to his PADD, studiously not-smiling. 

Later, when they’d gone to bed and Nyota lay there in the dark, she decided that things felt almost normal. Were it not for that fact, she might have answered differently when Spock rolled over onto his stomach, kissed her shoulder, and asked if she would be “amenable to physical intimacy.”

“Mr. Spock,” she said, “are you trying to seduce me?” 

Spock looked blank for a moment. “Affirmative,” he said. Then, “Ah! A twentieth-century film reference.” He sounded almost triumphant. Nyota shook her head, and kissed him on the lips. 

It was going to be the kind of sex that was more about making her feel better--them, really, though Spock would never have admitted as much. But as it happened, as he kissed her back and kissed down along the line of her jaw, as he raised his hands to her mouth so she could take each fingertip into it and swirl her tongue over the whorls of his fingerprints--as Spock did these things, Nyota started feeling a little like she was rolling downhill, gathering momentum. 

It was understandable, really, because Spock made really hot faces when she was sucking on his fingers. Way back when, when she first discovered this delightful trick, he’d tried to school his face into blankness, would flush green when he inevitably failed. Back then she took every twitch and short sharp intake of breath as a victory. But now Spock didn’t much bother trying to hide, though he did close his eyes. It worked out better for Nyota anyway, because then she could stare at Spock all she wanted. She took hold of his wrist and bit at the pad of his right ring finger, sucking it down to the knuckle. Spock’s eyes flew open and he shuddered, and he made as if to pull his hand back. 

“Mmm,” she said. “Too much?” 

He nodded, biting his lip. There were nights when she wouldn’t let up, let him worry at his lip until it shone green and he said her name over and over and came just like that, just her mouth on his hands. 

“What do you want?” she asked. 

Instead of answering, he rolled her onto her back and braced himself on his hands. She could feel him hard against her hip and she lolled back against the pillows in invitation. He leaned down and kissed her stomach, moving down methodically to settle between her legs and nip at her inner thighs. Only her inner thighs. Closer and closer to where she really wanted him, and once or twice he actually fucking leaned in and licked her, only to pull back just as she was about to settle into the rhythm of it. 

_Oh,_ she thought. _So it’s going to be like that._ Spock could give as good as he got when it came to teasing. She relaxed and let him do it, feeling the tension build in her until she couldn’t help but reach down and touch herself. Spock gave up his game and moved her hand away gently, replacing it with his mouth. She laid her hand on the back of his head and moaned appreciatively, scratching her nails across his scalp and feeling the resultant shiver. 

It was never enough for her this way, but Nyota liked the frustration, the feeling of chasing after something elusive. She pressed her legs around the sides of Spock’s head, effectively trapping him between them until he decided to come up for air. He moaned against her, as if he liked the feeling of restraint, and Nyota bucked against his face in turn. Presently, Spock stopped, laying his head on her belly and looking up at her, his face glistening obscenely in the low light. He brought his hand up and slide two fingers into her, and she shuddered at the contact, at the feeling of penetration and the idea of more where that came from. 

“I want--”

“Yes,” Spock said, crawling up the bed and lowering his body atop hers. He kissed her as he guided himself inside, and his first thrust was hard enough to shove her back into the headboard. She cried out, and he froze. 

“My apologies,” he said quickly. He slowed, circling his hips tentatively. 

“No, it’s fine,” she said. “C’mon, keep going.” She liked it when he lost control a little, liked the idea that he’d wanted it so badly he hadn’t taken a moment to check his momentum. 

Spock was good at compartmentalizing, so it wasn’t entirely out of the question that Jim was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. But Nyota wasn’t so good at it, so she guessed it was only natural that she started thinking, letting the idea loom larger and larger until she’d spun an entire elaborate scenario Spock could theoretically be imagining. Above her, he had buried his face at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, his expression--such as it might be--unreadable. 

_Stop it,_ she thought to herself. _Stop._ But she couldn’t. Whether or not it was actually true, the thought of Spock fucking her while he thought about fucking Jim lodged like a bone in her throat. She took a breath and let it out, and to her horror a sob hitched free along with it. Spock stilled again, and pulled back to look at her. 

“Nyota?” 

“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m fine.” 

“Am I correct in assuming this definition falls under the parameters of ‘bad fine’?” It was really pretty remarkable how quickly he could sound like Spock again, given the circumstances.

“Um,” she said. “I guess?” _Bad fine?_

Spock sighed. “Nyota--” 

“I said it’s fine,” she said, gripping his shoulders. “Don’t stop.” 

“Are you certain?” 

She kissed him instead of answering, thinking only of getting the insidious thoughts out of her head. He tensed, but she held the back of his head and after a moment he acquiesced, returning the kiss with all his earlier fervency. When she was convinced he wasn’t stopping, she let her hands drift down to the small of his back, then his ass, feeling the muscles bunch and lengthen as he moved in her. She focused on blocking everything out of her mind, everything except the little jolt of pleasure she got every time Spock pulled out and slid back into her. She was no longer content to take her pleasure passively; she tightened her hands on Spock’s back and when he next thrust home she held him fast to grind herself against him. Spock drew a sharp breath and let her do it, pulling out again just in time to make her moan and grit her teeth and look for more of it, and then it was mission fucking accomplished. Because now all Nyota was thinking about was how to keep Spock where she wanted him, and apparently all Spock was thinking about was how to fucking thwart her, because--

_“Fuck!”_ Nyota said. 

“I believe that is-- _ah_ \--I believe that is what I’m doing,” he said. 

“God, just let me--” 

He slammed back into her as deep as he could go and stayed there, and every muscle in Nyota’s body was strung taut as she clenched around him and ground her hips onto his cock. It was just at the knife edge of discomfort, and she sobbed again, this time in frustration. Spock slid the back of his hand across her face, wiping away beads of her sweat.  
“Let me,” he said. 

“O-okay,” she gasped. 

He splayed his hand over the meld points and she felt a stab of trepidation. They’d only done this a handful of times, and never during sex. It was the kind of thing that generally heralded a long and diplomatic conversation about cultural mores. 

“Are you--” 

“I would show you,” Spock said. “I would show you how much--”

And then his fingers found their marks, and suddenly the world exploded.

She was everywhere all at once, slick and hot and soft skin and hair and Spock was so deep inside now. Sometimes you could see images in a meld, whole planets hanging in the starry void of the mind. But now all she could do was feel, and _oh,_ she felt so much, and it took her a second to realize that every nerve of Spock’s was doubling back onto her own.

_You meant it. On the shuttle._

He was taken aback. _You doubted?_

_I tried not to._

He drew a ragged breath next to her ear and began to move again, and it was for both of them now, Nyota sprawling back into the meld, letting herself drift. And then all at once Spock gasped again-- _Nyota_ \--and they were coming, melting together, and she might’ve been shouting--

She didn’t notice when they came out of the meld, just that at some point she was aware of herself again, fingers and toes and tired muscles. All Nyota wanted to do was stretch out and sleep. She let Spock drape himself over her even though he was like a furnace and she was already sweating. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

“Do not doubt,” he said.

***

Spock lay staring at the ceiling. He was not asleep. Nyota lay beside him, her breathing even. She had kicked the blankets off of one leg, and her foot hung over the edge of the mattress. Nyota was often too hot when they spent the night together, but she turned up the climate controls in her apartment anyway. He would often rise in the middle of the night and lower the temperature. If he was occasionally slightly cooler than ideal, it was worth the moment when she sought out his body in her sleep, curled herself into his arms and tucked her head beneath his chin.

He would adjust the thermostat in a moment, he decided. Perhaps the drop in body temperature would encourage his mind to slow and initiate a REM cycle. He had attempted to meditate for a full standard hour, only to be repeatedly thwarted. He should rise and retrieve his PADD, continue reading the article he’d begun earlier in the evening. But he knew already that such an attempt would be fruitless. He could not focus; his mind churned. He found it strange that Jim had not responded to his communications, though whether or not his concerns were founded was unclear to him. He recalled what was perhaps the cardinal rule of logic: among several hypotheses, that which was predicated on the fewest assumptions was most likely to be correct. 

Given what he knew of Jim’s present mental state, it was likely that he had simply convinced Dr. McCoy or another of his numerous acquaintances to socialize with him. Which then gave rise to the equally high likelihood that Jim had consumed excess alcohol and allowed any manner of disaster to befall his comm unit. He repeated this scenario to himself several times, but it did not dispel the burgeoning sense of ill ease that seemed to creep inexorably into Spock’s very bones. 

And so he lay next to Nyota, and when his comm chimed beside the bed and Spock saw McCoy’s name on the screen he realized that he had been waiting for it. Perhaps he had been waiting since Jim awoke. 

“I’m at Jim’s,” McCoy said when Spock answered. “You need to get over here.” 

“Where is he?” Spock asked, though he knew it a waste of breath even as he spoke the words. 

McCoy sighed heavily, and something in his voice caught. “Not here,” he said. 

“Remain where you are,” Spock said. “I will arrive within ten minutes.” He ended the call, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and making a conscious effort to slow his heart rate. 

Nyota stirred in the bed, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes. The skin of her cheek was creased from the pillow. “What’s going on? Who was that?” she asked. 

“Dr. McCoy,” he said. “Jim appears to have disappeared from his apartment.” He stood, dressing as quickly as he could. One of his boots had worked its way halfway under the bed, and he had the sudden and inexplicable urge to curse as he was forced to kneel and retrieve it. 

“I’m coming with you,” Nyota said, shoving her feet into her own boots and tugging a hooded sweatshirt over her head. “Let’s go,” she said, crossing the bedroom and rummaging through a pile of clothing atop the dresser to retrieve her keys. 

They did not speak in the car, but Nyota slid a hand over the console to rest on Spock’s thigh. She squeezed it lightly. “It’ll be okay,” she said, as if to herself. Spock said nothing. He felt blank, his earlier disquiet having disappeared completely. He did not question it. It felt familiar. 

McCoy stood in the corridor in front of Jim’s unit, pacing the floor where Spock himself stood just over 24 hours earlier. His arms were crossed over his chest, his head bowed. When the lift doors opened, he looked up. His expression was all too familiar, and Spock was carried back all too quickly to another scene, this time in sickbay. McCoy’s exhausted pallor, his sunken eyes matched those trained on Jim’s still form as he waited for any indication that his hastily-crafted serum would work. But now there was no broken body to try and fix, just the door ajar and whatever was inside. 

“It’s all torn up in there,” McCoy said. “Whatever it was, he didn’t let them take him without a fight.” 

“You are certain he was removed from the premises?” 

McCoy nodded. “I looked around, just in case. Just to be sure he wasn’t--but no. No one there.” 

“Very well,” Spock said. 

_“Very well?_ Jim is _gone_ , taken by...by who the hell knows who, and all you’ve got to say about it is ‘very well’?” 

Spock exhaled slowly and deliberately. He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak Nyota stepped between him and McCoy, her hand extended. 

“C’mon, Len,” she said. Her tone was as even as she could make it, but Spock thought he detected an underlying quiver. 

McCoy flinched as Nyota laid a hand on his wrist. He let his arms fall to his sides as if she had flipped a switch, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I just get...well, you know how I get. Looks like we’ve assembled the founding members of the Jim Kirk Disaster Society yet again, and I had something a little different planned for my evening off.” 

“Why did you come?” Spock asked, ignoring the obvious understatement.

McCoy ran a hand over his face. “Jim and I were going to go get a beer--he was going to come by and get me around 2200. We were just going to go to this brewpub down the street from my place, unwind a little bit. Anyway, he never showed, which is weird for him. I mean, he flakes sometimes, but he usually comms. So I waited awhile and finally figured I’d come see what the hell was going on.” 

“A wise decision,” Spock said. “Or we would likely not have discovered Jim’s absence until the start of the work week.” 

“Well, maybe you wouldn’t have,” McCoy said. “Jim and I talk pretty much every day, about something or other.”

Spock tamped down the sudden flare of anger McCoy’s words incited. Innocuous as they likely were, he could not help but feel the impulse to enlighten him as to the previous evening’s activities. He remained silent. In his peripheral vision, he saw Nyota cast a glance at him. His right cheek twitched. 

“Regardless,” he said tightly, “we can certainly agree that earlier is better than later, can we not?” 

McCoy looked from Spock to Nyota and back again, shaking his head as if he’d thought to ask something and dismissed it. “Sure,” he said. “I mean, of course. So now that we know he’s gone what the hell are we going to do about it?” 

“Your statement a moment ago implied that we do not know who abducted Jim,” Spock said to McCoy. “However, I must admit to feeling a certain sense of inevitability regarding our current circumstances.” 

McCoy looked away briefly, toward Jim’s open door, and Spock followed his gaze. There was a low light coming from inside, and Spock found himself wondering what Jim had been doing when he was taken. Perhaps he had dimmed the lights in preparation for leaving his residence. Perhaps he had been asleep, and had been surprised. 

“You’re right,” McCoy said. “I guess...I guess I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, that we kept it contained. But I should’ve known, shouldn’t I? We all should’ve known better.” He shook his head slowly. 

“You think it’s Section 31,” Nyota said, lowering her voice. “You think that’s who took Jim?” 

McCoy opened his mouth to answer, but Spock raised a hand to still them. “We should discuss this elsewhere,” he said. McCoy and Nyota nodded. Spock gestured at Jim’s door. “Is there anything...does Jim have personal effects that...” He suddenly found it difficult to formulate the remainder of his sentence.

“He didn’t--doesn’t have a lot of his stuff here,” McCoy said. “Most of it’s in storage; he got a unit when we left for Nibiru. I think it’s mostly just clothes and some little things here. I’ve got the keycode; I can lock it back up for now. We calling the cops?” 

Spock shook his head. “I do not believe that would be effective,” he said.

“What about ‘Fleet security?” Nyota said. “Shouldn’t we call _someone_?” 

Spock considered a moment. He had an idea. It was not one he was particularly comfortable with--in fact, he was decidedly uncomfortable. But it was something, and it was, regrettably, all they had. “There is one person I believe may be of assistance,” he said. “Beyond that, I must admit I am...somewhat at a loss.” He swallowed. 

McCoy secured Jim’s apartment, and moved to follow Spock and Nyota toward Spock’s vee. When McCoy’s back was turned toward the door, Nyota squeezed Spock’s shoulder. He was grateful that she had afforded him the barrier of his clothing, though Spock had been reflexively shielding for the better part of the day. 

“Oh, hey,” McCoy said at the car. “I can’t believe I forgot this; it’s the only thing I picked up back there.” He held out his hand to Spock, a small black rectangle resting in his palm. It was Jim’s comm. Spock thanked him, sliding the device into his pocket. He did not look at it again until they had returned to Nyota’s apartment. She and McCoy decamped to the kitchen (“Put on a pot of coffee, dammit, I can’t save Jim’s ass for the umpteenth time without caffeine.”) 

Though the gravity of their current circumstances left little room for such comparatively unimportant matters as Spock’s personal life, he found he could not resist stepping into the bedroom and removing the comm unit from his pocket. McCoy, he supposed, had turned it off when he retrieved it from Jim’s apartment, and Spock hurriedly placed the unit beneath his shirt to muffle the chime it made when it powered back on. The screen glowed blue. 

_Please enter password._

Spock thought for a moment. In the adjacent room, he could hear Nyota and McCoy conversing hurriedly. This was perhaps the least logical thing Spock had ever done, but this realization did not prompt him to put the comm away. He bit his lip. 

_1701_

The security screen disappeared, and Spock felt a shameful prick of something like victory. 

_Unsaved draft. Discard?_

Spock hit “no,” and then he was looking at Jim’s last unsent comm. Perhaps his espionage would have been somewhat justified had the message yielded some clue as to Jim’s whereabouts, or the exact nature of his abductors. But it did not. Not only was it completely unrelated to Jim’s disappearance, it was only six Standard words long. Or, more accurately, five. The last word was a single character. 

_To: Spock_

_Hey- I had a really g_

“Spock?” 

Spock started, nearly dropping the comm as Nyota poked her head into the dim bedroom.  
She looked at the comm, then up at Spock’s face. She raised an eyebrow. 

“You okay in here?” she said. 

“Affirmative,” Spock said. “My apologies. I will join you momentarily.” 

“Take your time,” Nyota said, looking askance at the comm unit again. Spock put it back into his pocket and followed her into the living room, Jim’s abridged message running through his mind.

_Hey-_ said Jim’s voice. _I had a really g_ The imagined voice cut off frustratingly, leaving Spock none the clearer as to the intent of Jim’s message. He supposed he might theoretically derive satisfaction from the fact that Jim had intended to write to him at all, although such satisfaction did not appear to be forthcoming. 

Spock shook his head slightly, removing his own comm unit and setting it on the table, determined to return his thoughts to the matter at hand. Which was also Jim, as it happened. Spock sighed minutely. He suddenly felt very tired. 

“So, look,” Nyota said. “I get that up until now, the specifics of your whole cloak-and-dagger thing with the Captain were on a need to know basis. But now...” She looked pointedly at Spock. “Now, I’d say I need to know, wouldn’t you?” 

“Well, you already know most of it,” McCoy said. “You were there. In...in engineering, I mean.”

A strange look crossed his face as he said it, and for the first time Spock wondered if McCoy would have preferred to be there himself, to have watched Jim die. 

“And you sent me after Spock,” Nyota said. “And I knew why. I mean, I didn’t know the specifics of what you planned to do with...with Khan’s blood, obviously, but still.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Section 31,” she said matter-of-factly, as if giving a presentation. “What do we know?” 

“Admiral Marcus disclosed the existence of Section 31 to Captain Kirk and me immediately following Khan’s initial attack on the admiralty,” Spock said. “Prior to that conversation, my knowledge of the organization was nil. I heard rumors, during my tenure at the academy, but nothing more concrete.” 

“We probably heard the same rumors,” Nyota said. “There was a kid in my year who disappeared one day. Everyone said he got recruited by Section 31, but I think he probably just failed out.” She sighed. “So, you think they wanted Jim because of Khan’s blood,” she said. “Sounds about right, honestly. I mean, like you said, you can try to keep a lid on something like that, but at the end of the day...you brought someone back from the dead, Len. People are going to talk.” 

She was right, Spock thought. They had been foolish, incredibly so, to trust to humans’ circumspection. Spock had not seen an alternate course at the time, could not see one now, but this failing on his part was no excuse. Only time would tell the price to be paid. 

“Well,” McCoy said, “I guess we had a lot on our minds.” 

“We all did,” Nyota said. She sat next to McCoy on the couch, and now she leaned closer to him, nudging his shoulder with her own. Spock had spent years among humans at this point in his life, but he thought he might never grow entirely accustomed to their ease with touch, their reliance on it. McCoy looked at Nyota and something in his face seemed to loosen. 

“Yeah,” McCoy said. “Man, that was a bitch of a day. Bitch of a month, if you count that clusterfuck on Nibiru and Jim’s recovery time.” He jabbed a finger at Spock. “I haven’t forgotten pulling your ass out of that volcano,” he said. “Or you making me poke around in 72 torpedosicles. You’re at least 50% responsible for taking several years off my life.” 

“If you are dividing responsibility between Jim and me, surely 25% is a more accurate estimation,” Spock said. 

McCoy snorted. “There may just be something to that,” he said. “But that’s off the record, of course.” He stifled a yawn. “Aw, hell. I wasn’t up for a rescue mission tonight. I worked a fifteen-hour shift. Goddammit, Jim.” He covered his face with his hands, and for a moment Spock thought he was about to witness an emotional outburst. Nyota’s brow furrowed with concern, but then McCoy lowered his hands. 

“I hate to say this,” Nyota said hesitantly, “But would be it be smarter to just call it a night, here? We barely know what we’re up against; we’re not going to do Jim any favors running off exhausted and half-cocked.” 

Spock’s immediate reaction was one of dismissal, and the impulse took him aback. Of course, Nyota was correct, although a certain section of Spock’s brain--the part that was adamant that he could and would determine Jim’s location and retrieve him single-handedly if necessary--was loathe to believe it. Spock swallowed. He thought of Jim’s comm, secreted as it was in the pocket of Spock’s jacket. 

“Your logic is sound,” he said. “As I said earlier, there is one person I believe may elucidate our circumstances, to the extent it is possible to do so. I wish to contact her at the earliest convenience, and postpone any attempt at rescue until we have spoken.” 

“Who is this?” McCoy said. “Someone in the admiralty?” 

“I find I am disinclined to confide in the admiralty,” Spock said. “This individual...stands apart.” 

“Lay off the cryptic statements, will you? It’s three in the morning and I’m about to keel over in my seat, Spock. As it is I’m going to have to beg the Lieutenant here for permission to crash on her couch.” 

“Very well,” Spock said. “She and I became acquainted through Admiral Pike. I do not know her given name, if she has one. I know her only as Number One.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jim’s first thought was that his head hurt. His head hurt, and he was in space. He’d know the smell anywhere, a faint tang like burning metal and the staleness of recycled air. He could feel more than hear the familiar drone of engines, like home, like...

He forced his eyes open, against his better judgement. The room was blessedly dim, but the headache throbbed at his temples anyway. 

“Shit,” someone muttered. “He’s coming around.” 

“She’s not ready for him yet. Better dose him again,” said a second voice. 

_Hey_ , thought Jim blearily. _That’s not very nice._ But whoever the voices were, they weren’t listening. Jim felt a hand around his wrist, a strong grip pulling his arm out straight and a prick at the inside of his elbow. It was the last thing he felt for a long while. 

“Mr. Kirk?” the voice filtered silkily through the sludge in his head. “James?” 

Jim opened his eyes. The room was bright now, painfully so, and he winced reflexively. “Nobody calls me James but my grandma,” he said. His voice sounded awful, and his mouth tasted like he’d been eating sand. 

“Here,” said the voice. Someone pressed a glass to his lips and he drank. It occurred to him that maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to accept drinks from parties who had almost certainly taken him against his will, but he was too fucking thirsty to care. The water seemed safe enough; at least, he got through the glass without much of anything happening. 

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. Things were still a little blurry around the edges. As he blinked them into focus, a figure stepped into his field of vision. She was tall, clad in black like some kind of stormtrooper. Her hair was short and as dark as her clothes, and the cut--

“Are you--are you Vulcan?” 

She laughed, a harsh, humorless staccato. “No,” she said. “I am very human.” 

“Your hair--”

“Call it...an homage,” she said. 

Jim looked past her. It was difficult, somehow--she was short, this woman, but she was far from delicate. It seemed to Jim that she took up space in a way he couldn’t quite describe. He was sitting on a bed, flat and sad like a hospital gurney. They were in a glass-walled holding cell, not unlike the one on the _Enterprise_ where they’d kept Khan. Beyond the wall Jim could see a large room, the broad back of some lunk of a guard. The walls and bulkheads were dark grey. The effect was cavelike, but he was on a ship, for sure. There were the life support systems, humming again, and it was funny, wasn’t it, the way something deep inside him responded to that sound with a kind of bone-deep satisfaction. 

“Your birthright,” said the woman. 

Jim blinked. “Excuse me?” 

“Space,” she said. “It’s in your blood, isn’t it?” She waved a hand. “I know, I know, how many times have you heard that over the years. But that’s the thing, isn’t it, Kirk? It’s true.” 

“Look, not to be an asshole, but who the hell are you? ‘Cause I’m thinking you went to an awful lot of trouble to spirit me away just to chat about my deep and life-affirming love of the black. Starfleet, remember? I’m assuming you do, since you seem to know my name, rank and serial number off the top of your head.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Are you done?” she asked. “I’m Agent Koerner. Welcome to Section 31, Mr. Kirk.” She gestured to the surrounding room with what Jim could only describe as an ironic flourish. She wrinkled her nose. “You’ll have to excuse our dust,” she said. “These are temporary accommodations.” 

“Must’ve been a bitch when your secret headquarters went boom,” Jim said. 

“Collateral damage,” Koerner said. “Dealing with psychopaths occasionally backfires.” 

“So that’s what he was to you? Just some crazy guy?” 

“Three hundred years in stasis can’t be good for anyone’s mental health,” Koerner said. “But no. Not just that.” She sighed. “It’s too bad, really. Harrison--Khan--could’ve been incredibly useful, if we’d managed to keep him cooperative. Now, all that’s off the table. Which is where you come in.” 

“Meaning?” Kirk said. 

She smiled at him. It didn’t reach her eyes. “I think you know what I mean,” she said. 

Jim looked down at his closed fist. His veins splayed blue under the thin skin at his wrist, and he thought about Bones and Spock in his hospital room. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I do.” 

“Don’t look so glum, Kirk,” Koerner said. “If all you had going for you was your new-and-improved blood, do you really think we’d have gone to all this trouble to get you here? We have any number of agents who saw firsthand what Khan could do who’d be more than happy to serve as guinea pigs.” She smiled again. 

“I wish you’d stop doing that,” Jim muttered under his breath. 

“No,” she went on. “You’re more interesting than that, although I have to admit I’m pretty curious about that CMO of yours. He synthesized that serum in, what, a few hours? That’s some serious grace under pressure. I’d love to pick his brain.” 

“You leave him out of this,” Jim said, his gut clenching. He moved as if to get up from the bed, and saw Koerner’s eyes dart to the door. She held up a hand. 

“No need to worry,” she said, a little too quickly. “Leonard McCoy is safe as houses. From us, anyway. Of course, I can’t speak for his future out in the field, but then neither can you, can you?” 

Jim said nothing. 

“You must be hungry,” Koerner said. “I’ll get someone to bring you something to eat. Any preferences? Replicated, I’m afraid.” 

“I’m fine, thanks,” Jim said. 

“Don’t be a hero, Kirk. I took the same security seminars you did, so I can promise that when I offer you food, I’m offering you food. This isn’t some elaborate attempt at fostering trust or whatever you’re remembering from Prisoner 101 right now. And I’ll remind you, we’re playing for the same team here.”

“Yeah? Which team’s that?” 

“The safety and security of the Federation,” Koerner said. For all her earlier banter, her tone was deadly serious now. Something about it sent a chill through Jim. 

He raked a hand through his hair. He had a feeling that spiel was all part of the fostering trust thing, too, but his brain still felt cloudy from whatever they’d knocked him out with on the transport. And fuck him, his fucking traitor stomach had to pick this exact moment to growl audibly. He ignored it. He thought of Spock, who probably had the innate ability to discontinue peristalsis or some shit. Spock, who---no, on second thought, Jim wasn’t going to go there. 

“So, you’re Starfleet?” he asked. 

She hesitated for a moment. “Was,” she said. “Went through the Academy, then I took a post dirtside for awhile.” 

“What were you, comms? Security?” 

“Medical, actually,” she said. “So when I say I’d like to pick your CMO’s brain, my interest is not entirely professional. So, look,” she said. “I know you’re hungry. We’re not in the business of starving our guests to death. Do yourself a favor and eat something.” 

Koerner seemed unduly pleased when Jim relented and asked for a sandwich. 

“Smart boy,” she said. The diminutive rankled, but Jim let it go. _Be cool_ , he thought. _Be cool and play along, and then get the hell out of here._

Koerner moved toward the door, shielding a keypad with her body as she coded herself out of the cell. She nodded to the guard outside, muttering something to him Jim couldn’t hear. “Agent Desai here will see about your sandwich,” she said, turning back to Jim. “I’ll leave you for now, but I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other. Oh, and a medical team will be by,” she said. “Can’t let all that lovely blood of yours go to waste.” 

When she was gone, Jim walked over to the glass and made a show of grinning obnoxiously at Agent Desai as he tapped on the glass. No point in trying to conceal his efforts to glean more information about his surroundings, which was the bitch of the thing about glass cells, but he’d deal. When Desai brought the sandwich, he ate it without tasting a thing. _Fuck fuck fuck,_ Jim thought. 

He was still dressed in his civvies, the jeans and hooded sweatshirt he’d had on to go meet Bones. He felt in his pockets for his comm, but it wasn’t there. Confiscated, maybe? Jim couldn’t remember whether or not he’d had the unit on him when he was taken, but then he couldn’t remember any of the specifics about that at all. 

The med team let themselves in. They were a couple of nerdy looking guys in lab coats who’d probably flunked out of Medical and sold secrets or something, Jim thought uncharitably. One of them looked pretty terrified, actually, and Jim had the misplaced urge to smile at him reassuringly while the second took vial after vial of Jim’s blood. _Not interested my ass,_ he thought. _Yeah, I bet these goons are falling all over themselves to get shot up with the augment virus._

When they left, Jim lay on his side on the gurney with his back to the guard. He was an idiot. They were all idiots, him and Bones and Spock, to have ever thought that they’d fool anyone with that fucking report. Not that the report had even mattered, apparently. No, this was loose lips, pure and simple. Someone talked to someone else who talked, a game of telephone that found its way to the right pair of ears, and now here Jim was. His fate was sealed the minute Bones stuck the needle in his cold dead arm, and now all he could do was wait.

***

When Nyota woke up, it was still dark. She couldn’t quite remember falling asleep, but it was absolutely not long enough ago. Next to her, Spock was bundled in the comforter, the black cap of his hair barely visible in a downy white cocoon. She reached out and smoothed the covers away from his face. His eyes twitched beneath both sets of lids, and his mouth was open slightly. He’d probably be aghast at sleeping longer than Nyota, but she wasn’t about to wake him up. Spock spent a lot of time running himself into the ground. She thought sometimes he forgot that the body didn’t bend to logic quite as readily as the mind, and she wasn’t always sure of the line between what Spock needed and what he thought he needed.

She suspected he wasn’t either. 

She slid out of the bed and pulled on a pair of sweats, putting yesterday’s bra back on under her nightshirt before she opened the bedroom door and crept out into the living room. Out the window, the night was starting to grey into morning. McCoy was sprawled the length of the couch, mouth wide open and hair wild. She made a pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table watching the sky lighten. She wondered if Jim could see it, wherever he was, but somehow she doubted it. _Goddammit, Jim, c’mon,_ she thought. _Get your ass back here so you can buy me shots and complicate my relationship with my boyfriend._

“Morning.” McCoy slid into the chair across from her. 

“Hey,” Nyota said. “You want some coffee?” 

“I’ll get it,” he said. “Thanks.” He stared out the window, blinking into the encroaching dawn like it pained him to do so. “Spock still out?” 

She nodded. “Yeah. He hasn’t been sleeping so well lately; I figure we should him get as much as he can. Who knows what’s going to happen today, you know?” 

“Oh, I know,” McCoy said. He groaned. “This was supposed to be my downtime, dammit,” he said. “Nothing to worry about but a mess of cadets binge-drinking and trying to get themselves killed.” He sighed wistfully. 

She must have looked incredulous, because McCoy shrugged and held up his hands. “What can I say,” he said. “I really, really hate space.” 

“Maybe you should consider exposure therapy,” she said. “Since I somehow doubt we’re going to be spending our next tour in space dock.” 

“If we’re talking physical stress, I think I’m getting plenty of exposure right now,” McCoy said. “Jim Kirk and space are both murder on my blood pressure.” 

She laughed. “You can say that again,” she said. 

“To what are you referring?” Spock had entered the room. He was dressed in his uniform and boots, but his hair was damp and unkempt. When he saw McCoy sitting next to Nyota he frowned and hurried to straighten it with his fingers. Nyota leaned on her elbows and hid her grin behind her hands. 

“Oh, just lamenting Jim’s detrimental effect on my overall health and well-being,” McCoy said. 

“Under the circumstances, I find your levity in poor taste,” Spock said tartly. 

“It’s called gallows humor, Spock,” McCoy said. “And you might as well get used to it, because in my experience humans are mighty fond of it when they’re in the shit.” He stood and stretched his arms over his head. “And good morning to you too, by the way. If you’re going to start the day by defending Jim’s honor, I’m definitely going to need some coffee.”

“Mugs are in the top left cabinet,” Nyota said, feeling slightly chastened. She got up, walking over to Spock. She extended her hand, thinking to kiss him the Vulcan way, and his gaze darted toward the kitchen before he reciprocated. 

“Good morning,” he said, ending the kiss to twine their fingers together. 

“Don’t mind him,” she said. “He’s worried too.” 

“It was a marked lack of self control on my part,” Spock said, sounding faintly surprised. “It will not happen again.” 

Nyota decided against pointing out that Spock’s reply to McCoy fell pretty far down the list of recent lapses in self control, particularly where Jim was concerned. Which...wasn’t something she was really in the mood to think about this early in the morning, actually. Luckily, Spock chose that moment to brandish his comm unit and scroll through his messages. 

“Ah,” he said. “Number One has responded affirmatively to my request to meet. We should leave presently,” he said, looking pointedly at Nyota’s t-shirt and sweats. 

“I’ll get ready,” she said. As she closed the bedroom door behind her, she heard McCoy needling Spock about his sense of humor. She shook her head. Nothing like a crack rescue team with two out of three members who’d rather die than admit they liked each other even a little bit. That was going to be hugely productive. 

Number One lived in a townhouse a few miles from the ‘Fleet campus. As Spock maneuvered his vee alongside the curb, Nyota looked out at the building with a looming sense of dread. She wasn’t great with death. For all she’d pushed Spock to deal with the loss of Vulcan, of his mother; as impotently frustrated as she’d been when he blatantly refused to do it, nearly to his doom--Nyota couldn’t say with certainty that she’d have been much better herself. Maybe that was why she’d let it go as long as she had, let it build and build until it created a chasm in Spock nearly as fathomless as the singularity that took his planet. Sometimes, Nyota thought, she didn’t give herself nearly enough credit. It wasn’t always easy to remember that Spock’s logic wasn’t infallible, irrefutably preferable to the vicissitudes of human emotion. Now, as he turned off the vee and opened the driver’s side door, his expression looked strained. She wondered if she’d be running emotional interference here. She wasn’t great with death, but Nyota could suck it up in the name of communication. If she couldn’t have, she’d have taken that desk job and never looked back. 

But as it turned out, Nyota’s skill set was wasted on this particular meeting. Number One was...well, having met her, Nyota understood a little more of why Spock felt the way he did about his assignment under Pike. If Spock had been human, Nyota might have called his tone when he spoke of it “fond,” but since he wasn’t she settled on “satisfied.” 

The door slid open almost before the chime had died away, revealing a tall, dark-haired woman who looked like she’d had a few too many late nights recently. When she saw Spock, her eyes softened. She smiled faintly, holding up her hand in the ta’al. Spock returned the gesture, and Nyota got the impression that this was essentially a hug. 

“I grieve with thee,” Spock said quietly. 

“Thank you,” said Number One. 

“It is I who should thank you, for agreeing to speak with us,” Spock said. “This is Lieutenant Nyota Uhura and Chief Medical Officer Dr. Leonard McCoy.” 

“Ma’am,” McCoy said, bowing his head. 

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” Nyota said, perhaps a little too effusively. She caught the slightly amused expression Number One directed at Spock and looked away, embarrassed. 

“And you as well,” Number One said. “Both of you.” She gestured down a hallway; Nyota could make out the corner of a couch. “Please,” she said. 

“Chris would be greatly distressed to hear about this,” she said as they sat. “ _I_ am greatly distressed, but Chris, of course, was particularly close to Captain Kirk.” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and sighed. “He was gutted when he came back from that meeting with the two of you,” she said, looking at Spock. Spock looked at the floor, and Nyota thought she could detect the faintest tinge of green at the tips of his ears. 

“He paced around the house for an hour like a caged animal; he never said a word to me,” she continued. “I think he threw some glassware. I think he thought--hoped-- it would all come right in the end, taking back the ship and keeping Kirk on as his first.” She shook her head. “Which isn’t to say it wasn’t a _highly_ emotional decision on his part,” she said. “But he felt...I suppose he felt, at least, that it was the correct one.” 

Nyota thought of Jim at Pike’s memorial, the way his hand shook as he clutched the program. He’d been out until dawn the night before, which she knew because he’d drunk-dialed Spock, who’d answered his comm on the first ring and disappeared into the fresher with it, citing the late hour and a desire to let Nyota go back to sleep. He’d seemed light years away from the Jim of a few weeks earlier, who’d replied to her condolences with a breezy thank you and immediately segued into mutual bitching about Spock in a turbolift. But then, grace under pressure had never been a weak point of Jim’s. 

“Did Admiral Pike--did he know? About Marcus?” Nyota asked. 

“He suspected,” said Number One. “We discussed it; he was reasonably certain Marcus was involved in some kind of covert project, whether it was Section 31 or something else. Of course, the admiralty, the Federation...they’ll never confirm or deny. Section 31 doesn’t exist in any official capacity, and coming out and questioning Marcus directly could’ve cost Chris his career.” 

She looked at her hands. “Do you have any idea what they’d want with Kirk?” 

Spock and McCoy glanced sidelong at one another, as if deciding how to proceed. 

“I believe the relevant human expression is that it is a long story,” Spock said. “I do not believe knowledge of the exact details would benefit you, given the situation in which we find ourselves.” 

“Understood,” Number One said. 

“Suffice it to say it is likely that certain potential... physiological characteristics have drawn their attention.” 

“Well, anything in the name of Federation security,” said Number One. She reached into the pocket of her robes and produced a small gunmetal grey square. _A data chip,_ Nyota thought. 

“After you contacted me last night...this morning, rather, I put this together. It’s some documentation Chris was working on.” She sighed. “He didn’t want to think the worst of Marcus. You know he recruited Chris,” she said, to which Spock nodded. “But I suppose Chris thought, over the years, that Marcus had lost his way, lost sight of Starfleet’s mission. What was the old Terran analogy, hawks and doves? Anyway, I don’t know how helpful it will be; possibly not at all.”

“Anything’s better than what we have right now,” McCoy said. “Thank you.” 

“It’s nothing,” she said. She sat back, then, staring at the three of them for a long moment.

“Do be careful,” she said. “There may be more at work here than you or I can imagine, and I would...” She looked away, bit her lower lip. When she turned back, something in her expression had hardened. “It would be most regrettable to martyr yourselves to a fruitless cause,” she said.

“Understood,” Spock said. 

Nyota wondered if he did.

***

Spock hadn’t been entirely certain what he would find when he arrived on the engineering deck of the _Enterprise_. He expected some degree of disarray, and he was not incorrect. But rather than bustling red-suited officers hard at work on some element of the refit, Spock was greeted by what he could only term a party. In the Captain’s parlance, he believed it would qualify as a “rager.”

He spent several minutes standing on the periphery, attempting to attract the attention of a group of ensigns in various states of inebriation. He was unsuccessful. Spock disliked raising his voice, but he was contemplating either doing so or setting off the red alert siren when he was accosted by a blur of green and red. 

“Look who it is!” said Gaila. Her arm was draped over Ensign Chekov’s shoulders. “Look, Pavel, it’s Spock!” 

Chekov looked decidedly less enthusiastic about Spock’s presence. He shrugged slightly, possibly in an attempt to subtly encourage Gaila to release him, but if this was indeed his intention the message went unheard. Regardless, he stood at attention as best he could and saluted. “Commander Spock, sir,” he said. 

“At ease, Ensign,” Spock said. “May I ask what manner of celebration is presently occurring?” 

“It’s Lieutenant Riley’s birthday, sir,” said Gaila. “Scotty brought a keg in, and--” She clapped her hands over her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that.” 

“Indeed not,” Spock said dryly. “Ensign Chekov, could you direct me to Mr. Scott?” 

“He’s not here, sir,” Chekov said. 

“I think he went back to his quarters after that game of flip cup--ow, Chekov, why are you elbowing me?” 

“I will attempt to locate him there,” Spock said. “Dismissed.” No sooner had he finished speaking than Gaila and Chekov disappeared around the corner of a bulkhead. Spock shook his head, and hastened to the turbolift. 

Mr. Scott seemed to have achieved a state of personal chaos roughly equivalent to the department he supervised. He answered the door chime with his eyes closed and his hair protruding from his head at right angles. He was not wearing a shirt. 

“I’m sorry, sir, could you repeat yourself?” he said after Spock had stated the reason for his visit. “It’s just that...well, I was having a nap and I’ve only just woken up. It sounded as though you said the Captain was missing.” 

“That is indeed what I said,” Spock said. “And I believe you may be instrumental in his safe return, as it was you who discovered Admiral Marcus’ hidden shipyard secreted behind Jupiter.” 

“Er, yes,” Scott said. “But that was after Jim--that is to say, the Captain--gave me the coordinates.” 

“I trust you still possess those coordinates, Mr. Scott?” 

Mr. Scott swallowed. “Of course, sir.” He looked back toward his bed with something like regret, then turned back to Spock, his jaw set firmly. “So when are we mounting this rescue mission, then?”

***

Spock suspected that only loyalty to Jim--coupled with a measure of personal pride apparently proportional to Spock’s presence--had convinced McCoy to board the shuttle.

Nyota patted him on the shoulder. “Relax,” she said. “I beat Sulu five to one the last time we did flight sims in the shuttle.” 

“I wouldn’t feel any better if he was flying this tin can,” McCoy said. “I should’ve taken a sedative.” 

“Doing so would have lowered your reaction time considerably,” Spock said. “In the event of an emergency--”

“Don’t even bring it up, Spock. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to strap in and recite the Lord’s Prayer until we’re in orbit.” 

“You are a scientist, doctor. As such, I fail to understand how you can possibly believe that--”

“Okay, okay,” Nyota said, raising her hands. “Let’s just get going, shall we?” 

Spock took the seat adjacent to Nyota, while Mr. Scott sat next to McCoy. “S’alright, lad,” Spock heard Scott mutter in what Spock assumed was intended to be a reassuring tone. “It’s only a hop, skip, and a jump from here to Jupiter.” 

McCoy buried his face in his hands. “Do you even hear what you’re saying, man?” 

It was, in fact, an appreciably short trip to the site of what they believed to be Section 31’s hidden shipyard. It occurred to Spock, as they neared the correct coordinates, that it was a distinct possibility that they would reach the far side of the planet only to find empty space or abandoned structures. It had occurred to him earlier, in fact. But this was the data they possessed, and only time would tell whether the decision to proceed was sound. Spock had not bothered to calculate the odds. 

As they neared their destination, Nyota slowed the shuttle and banked close just outside the planet’s gravitational field. And despite any uncertainty they might have harbored, there it was. Spock looked on the space station with automatic distaste. Ordinarily, he might have spared a measure of admiration for the obvious size and quality of the facilities; obviously the capacity for research and development was considerable. But now all he could think of was Marcus, and Jim. The latter was perhaps worse, in its way. The intrusion of emotion was distracting, and Spock made a concerted effort to divorce his thinking from it and utilize his controls. _Too little, too late._ Spock straightened in his seat. He saw Nyota glance at him out of the corner of her eye. 

“Care to share any tips about getting into this place, Scotty?” she asked.

“Erm, not sure, really,” Scott said. “I kind of just...snuck in under the radar, I suppose. I came in in the wake of another ship; they missed me on sensors. Don’t expect they were looking for something so wee.” 

“You were fortuitous,” Spock said. “It is unwise to assume we will be so again.” 

“Well, what do you want us to do, swan up to the gate and ask nicely?” said McCoy. 

“I can get us close,” Nyota said. “Maybe we can kind of...sidle along the periphery, see what kind of sensor array they’ve got going on.” She motioned with her hands.

McCoy snorted. “And then what?” 

Nyota rolled her eyes. “Skepticism’s not a good look on you, Len,” she said. “Sensors are comms, basically. And comms are my thing. Setting them up, running them, and yes, taking them down. This place is big enough that there won’t be one centralized comms center; they’ll have relay stations placed at intervals around the perimeter. I’m not saying it’s not going to take a some luck, but it shouldn’t be too hard to jack around with their sensors and comms at least a little bit.” 

She looked back at Spock. “Sound like a plan?” 

“Yes,” Spock said simply. 

“Excellent,” said Nyota. “Bringing us around, then.”

The compound’s sensor layout was precisely as Nyota had hypothesized. They selected a relay station on the far side and ran silent for a time in order to assess the degree of activity in their vicinity. There was little, although they could see other shuttles coming and going in the middle distance, patterns of lights on the space stations changing. 

“Do you think there are more Dreadnoughts?” Scott asked. 

“I cannot see evidence of another ship of that size,” Spock said. “But my personal observations are likely irrelevant. And they may have moved those operations elsewhere following Khan’s--and our--previous infiltration of this area.” 

“Great,” McCoy said. “So there might be some other secret hideout somewhere else where they’ve got Jim.” 

“Unfortunately, that is a very real possibility,” Spock said. “Would you prefer we had remained in San Francisco and done nothing?” He found the doctor increasingly able to affect him emotionally, particularly regarding matters pertaining to Jim. It was highly disconcerting. 

McCoy didn’t answer him. Beside Spock, Nyota exhaled in a manner that indicated annoyance.

“Okay,” Nyota said. “I think we’ve been sitting around long enough. Let’s do this,” she said. 

“What are you thinking?” Scott said. “The fore photon bank could take out the relay station easily,” he said. 

“What kind of light show are we looking at, though?” Nyota asked. “We want as much time as possible to get clear before they notice the hiccup. They _will_ notice, but they’re going to notice a lot faster with fireworks.” 

“Point,” said Scott with a shrug. 

Nyota bit her lip as if in thought. “What about a phaser?” she said. “That’d work, and it would be way more subtle than any of the shuttle’s weapons. Plus I could get a closer look at--”

“You’re not talking about going out there, are you?” McCoy asked incredulously. “Spock, are you hearing this?” 

Nyota whirled around to look at him at the same moment McCoy did, and Spock felt curiously entrapped. He was indeed filled with disquiet at the thought of Nyota working outside the shuttlecraft, though his knowledge of her abilities should have provided a sufficient logical counterweight to dispel it. Nyota’s brow furrowed, and he recalled the last time they had occupied a shuttle together. _Let me speak Klingon._

“Lieutenant Uhura is more than capable of handling herself on a spacewalk, per her Academy training and her service on the _Enterprise_ ,” Spock said at last. 

“Thank you,” Nyota said primly, raising an eyebrow at McCoy. 

“I’m not doubting your abilities, Uhura,” he said. He sounded tired. “I just--”

Nyota reached across to McCoy and clasped his forearm. “I know,” she said. “I get it. It’ll be okay, Len. Okay?” 

McCoy nodded, looking away. When his eyes found Spock’s, he smiled tightly and dropped his gaze again. 

Nyota wasted no time sliding into her space suit. She she stood adjusting the straps on her helmet, Spock stepped closer to her, angling his body so his back was to Scott and McCoy. It did not afford much privacy, but it would have to serve. Nyota looked up from the helmet. 

“Hi,” she said. Her voice was even. Spock supposed she must be feeling some measure of trepidation, but her bearing did not betray it. She smiled. “I’m going to be fine,” she said. 

“I do not doubt it,” Spock said. “I merely wished to convey my admiration for the extreme competence you have demonstrated thus far.” 

Nyota’s smile widened, and she quirked an eyebrow at him in what could only be described as a suggestive manner. “You just think I look hot in my suit,” she said. 

“That...is an additional consideration,” he said. He leaned in and kissed her gently on the mouth. “Please take care,” he said. 

“Aye, Commander,” she replied. And then, more softly: “I will.” She bobbed on her toes in nervous excitement. “Scotty, you want to ride shotgun with Spock for this?” 

“Aye,” said Scott, climbing into the now-vacant co-pilot’s seat as Spock took Nyota’s place at the helm. McCoy hovered between them, his face a mask of concern. 

“Testing space suit comms,” she said, securing her helmet. Her voice rang out over the shuttle-wide comm system.

“Space suit comms operational,” Spock said. He flipped a switch on the console before him. “You are now cleared to enter the airlock,” he said. “I will monitor your frequency.” 

“Entering airlock,” Nyota said. The door slid open with a hiss and she stepped inside. “See you guys in a little bit.” 

The viewscreen was frustratingly small compared to the one on the _Enterprise_ bridge, but it afforded Spock a workable view of Nyota in the airlock as she secured the restraints that would hold her in place when the airlock opened, preventing her from floating free of the shuttle in an uncontrolled manner. 

“I’m in,” Nyota said. 

“Preparing to open airlock on your command,” Spock said. 

“Go ahead.” 

Spock’s stomach clenched reflexively. He had not recently had the opportunity to undertake a spacewalk, but from his recollection of Academy training there had been a moment of abject, animal fear that had initially given him pause despite his Vulcan controls. It was as if his very being had balked at the prospect of stepping free of the airlock, fully-equipped space suit notwithstanding. He wondered if Nyota was feeling such fear now. 

For 3.2 minutes, there was only silence. Then, Nyota’s voice crackled over the shuttle’s tinny speakers. 

“Clear of the shuttle,” she said. “About to make contact with the exterior of the relay station...okay, I’m on it. And now I’m going to shoot it up a little bit. Stand by.” 

Spock thought she sounded entirely too pleased with the prospect of destroying technology that, while possibly used for purposes of dubious moral rectitude, was still technically in service to the Federation. 

Nyota’s discharging phaser was barely audible through her suit’s comm system, but the litany of broadcast into the shuttle’s cabin certainly was. Nyota appeared to be insulting the relay station rather vigorously, utilizing Klingon, Vulcan, and at least two Romulan dialects. Beside Spock, Scott burst into laughter, and even McCoy was grinning. 

“What’d that thing ever do to you?” Scott said into the comm. 

“Just--ah!--just working out a little pent up aggression,” Nyota said. “Okay,” she said. “Going to disable the sensor relay now.” 

“You haven’t even--”

“Keep your pants on, Len.” 

Spock had not been listening to their exchange. Instead, he had remained focused on the shuttle’s own sensors, which were now detecting something disturbing. 

“Lieutenant Uhura,” Spock said, interrupting a retort from McCoy. 

“Yes?” 

“Cease your efforts to disable the sensors and return to the shuttle immediately.” 

“Spock, I’m almost done--”

“Nyota, return to the shuttle immediately.” 

She sighed. “Fine,” she said. “Returning to the airlock, prepare to open.” 

“Shit,” said Scott, leaning over to look at the screens himself. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

“Is that what I think it is?” McCoy asked. “They’re sending out the welcoming committee?” 

“It would appear so,” Spock said. “Lieutenant, status?” 

“I’m back,” she said. “In the airlock. Open up.” 

She stepped out of the door, unbuckling her helmet and unzipping the top half of her spacesuit. “What’s going on?” she said. “I almost had it.” 

Spock indicated the viewscreen, which displayed a v-shaped formation of small craft headed directly for them. The avatars blinked green in the low light of the shuttle and the glow played off their faces eerily. 

“Crap,” said Nyota. “Here, move,” she said to Spock, who complied. She slid back into the pilot’s seat and immediately set about flipping switches. 

“What are you doing?” McCoy asked. “We’ve got to get out of here.” 

Nyota shook her head. “We can’t run,” she said. “What do you think they’d do if we just ran? Think the worst and take us out. We need to hail them, make sure they know we’re friendly.” 

“How do they know we’re telling the truth? We could be anyone. And you were just beating the shit out of their relay station.” 

“We are in a Starfleet shuttlecraft,” Spock said. “While I suppose it is conceivable that we could have hijacked it and jettisoned the original crew, it is statistically unlikely.” 

“Hope they’ve got a head for numbers,” McCoy said. 

“They’re closing,” Scott said. “Whatever we’re going to do, we need to do it soon.” 

Nyota made a face. “Here goes,” she said. She took a deep breath and hit “transmit.” “This is Galileo Six, USS _Enterprise_ , NCC-1701,” she said crisply. “Repeat, Galileo Six, NCC-1701. We are a Federation vessel. Repeat, a Federation vessel. Over.” 

“They’re still coming,” Scott said. 

“Transmit again,” Spock said. 

“This is Galileo Six--”

“They’re...they’re locking weapons,” Scott said in disbelief. “Weapons are locked on.” 

“Stand down!” Nyota called into the comm. “Repeat, we are a Federation vessel. Request on-screen communication and immediate cessation of hostile activity, over.” 

She shook her head. “They’re not answering!” Her voice shook. 

“They’re about to--they’re firing,” Scott said. A streak of red shot past the starboard porthole in tandem with the pulse of green on the viewscreen.

“Dammit, what the hell do we do now?” said McCoy. 

“I believe now would be the appropriate time to run,” Spock said. “Lieutenant,” he said to Nyota. 

“On it,” she said. “Reversing thrusters.” The shuttle shot backwards, Nyota banking hard into a turn while in reverse and bringing the craft around. 

“Step on it,” McCoy muttered. He had returned to his seat and strapped himself in in record time. 

“Trying,” said Nyota through clenched teeth. “Man, what I wouldn’t give for warp on this thing right now.”

“Now that you mention it,” Scott said from behind her, “I may have done a wee bit of tinkering on the shuttles. Er, on my days off, of course. If you’ll kind of...jimmy that lever just there, and press the--that’s it, there we are!” 

As the shuttle shuddered into an approximation of warp, Spock allowed his hands to unclench from the armrests. “We will discuss your unauthorized modifications to the shuttlecraft at a later date, Mr. Scott,” he said. “For the moment, please accept my thanks.” 

“Um, any time, sir,” Scott said.

***

Jim was awake when they came for him.

Sleep pricked at his eyelids, and even the hard-ass gurney and thin blanket had started to look good after about hour 10. And Jim knew--he _knew_ \--that whatever they had planned for him, it would go better for them if he was exhausted. But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t stare at that mockingly breakable pane of glass, the bored guard beyond it, and just lie down and sleep. So he sat there and recited the periodic table, then the planets in the Federation backwards and forwards, and when those threatened to put him to sleep he switched to an extremely self-indulgent fantasy involving Spock and the spoils of the best sex shop Jim could dream up. In retrospect, he probably should’ve stuck with the periodic table, given what Koerner and her team had planned. 

“Good morning, Mr. Kirk,” said Koerner brightly. 

“Oh, is it morning?” Jim said. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

Koerner’s mouth formed a sympathetic moue. She was wearing fuschia lipstick. “I’d love to get you out of here, Kirk,” she said. “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Big soft bed, shower, maybe a beer? We can make it happen. There’s just one more thing we’d like you to do for us, while we’ve got you here.” 

“I love how you’re still framing that like it’s a choice,” Jim said. “It’s cute, actually.” 

“Everything’s a choice,” Koerner said, giving Jim an even look. _We know where you live,_ it seemed to say. _We know where your friends live._

“So what’s up with the muscle?” Jim said as two burly guards stepped to either side of him and took hold of his upper arms. “Easy there, guys. I’m not going to bolt. Pinky swear.” He looked back at Koerner. _Fine,_ he thought. Fine. 

“I’m glad we see eye to eye,” she said. “If you’ll follow me?” 

Koerner led Jim and his escorts to a turbolift. The ship they were in was bigger than the _Enterprise_. More decks, anyway. He wondered if there might have been another prototype like the _Vengeance_ kicking around. He wondered what the ship might be called. The _Ambush_ , maybe, just to drive the point home. 

“Here we are,” said Koerner, as they stepped out of the lift into what appeared to be some kind of modified medbay. Jim recognized the taciturn guy in the lab coat who’d been afraid to take his blood earlier. The man stopped what he was doing as they entered the room, his brow furrowed in what looked like concern. He wouldn’t meet Jim’s eye. They stopped in front of a partially reclined chair. It looked like a cross between a dentist’s chair and some kind of torture device. _Well, this is a little more in line with what I was expecting,_ Jim thought, slightly hysterically. 

“If you’ll have a seat,” Koerner said. Jim eyed the white drape over the metal tabletop with trepidation. “No need to be concerned,” said Koerner. She gestured to an older, bespectacled man in what looked like a modified ‘Fleet medical uniform, if med track officers wore black pleather. 

“That doesn’t look like it breathes well,” Jim said. “Bet the blood rinses right off, though.” 

“Dr. Malik here will just be doing a few routine scans,” Koerner said, ignoring Jim. “If you’d take a seat here--”

“Ooh, arm and leg restraints. Fun!” 

“Mr. Kirk, please sit,” said Dr. Malik. The guards took a step closer. 

“You know what,” Jim said. “No. I don’t think I will.” 

It was like the not sleeping thing. Because Jim knew what was going to happen like he was watching it replay in slow motion. That he would, actually, decide to bolt, and that one of those burly fuckers would grab at him and throw off his balance before he was even within spitting distance of the door, send him spinning headlong into a tray of sharp and probably expensive instruments and then take the opportunity to give Jim a split lip for his trouble. 

So yeah, all that happened, and Jim was summarily wrested into the torture chair and strapped down. But at least, he thought as they fastened what was basically a fancy pair of white goggles over his eyes, at least he could bloody up their nice white lab a little. 

Whatever the scan was doing, it was indeed painless, which was a small mercy since his face was now beginning to throb. A bright, pulsing blue light shone into his eyes, and it was like it was in his mind somehow, a probing, fuzzy hum. It made Jim feel like he needed to sneeze.

“Excellent,” said Dr. Malik. “Just one more...here we are...and done.” 

Jim blinked reflexively as one of the hapless lab coated minions removed the goggles from his face. 

“Point-five of lorazepam,” said someone, and before he could protest Jim felt a sting in his upper arm. 

“We’re going to put him in exam room three,” said someone else. Jim thought it sounded like Koerner, but then everything was starting to go a little soft around the edges, like he was a couple beers in. His face stopped hurting, so that was a plus, and wow, yeah, Koerner was still here. That lipstick was vibrant as hell, and Jim watched the bright bow of her lips move. Was she saying something to him? Something about another test? Did it matter? Probably not, if it mattered Jim was sure she’d say something to him instead of just moving her lips like that. 

“Here we go,” said a voice next to his ear, and then Jim was moving. Someone was lifting him, bearing most of his weight, which was nice because he felt so _heavy_ all of a sudden. Walking, walking down a gleaming hallway, bulkheads dark where the _Enterprise_ was light, and wasn’t that some clunky as hell symbolism? Maybe he’d ask Scotty if they could paint the ship a different color, make her look more badass. Just to see the look on his face. How did you paint a starship, anyway? Maybe it was powder coated, the way they redid those old vees at the garage back home. Oh, they were here. Wherever here was. Here was a room, a big empty room, no furniture, just a slick grey floor and those dark grey walls and--

The door closed, a whir and a click, and then someone must have flipped a switch, because the whole room seemed to shimmer the way heat did over asphalt in the summer. Jim blinked. 

And then...then Spock was there. 

He stood at the far end of the room. He was wearing his academy blacks for some reason, and he looked severe and dangerous and hot as hell, the way he’d looked at the hearing way back when. 

“What are you doing here?” Jim asked. Because he couldn’t quite remember where he was, all of a sudden. But he was pretty sure...he was pretty sure Spock wasn’t supposed to be here. 

“Captain? Jim?” Spock’s brow furrowed in concern. “You do not look well,” he said. “Are you all right?” 

Jim swallowed. “I think so,” he said. “I don’t know. I feel...kind of funny, actually.” 

Spock came over to Jim, and as he got closer the air shimmered again, like the way Spock moved through it was disturbing it somehow. 

“Let me--” Spock held out a hand, and Jim stared at it for a long moment before reaching out and taking it. For some reason, he hadn’t expected it to be solid, but it was. It was solid and warm, and as Spock pulled him to his feet Jim wheeled a little and caught at Spock’s shoulder to keep from falling. That was solid too, the black wool of Spock’s blacks dense and soft beneath his fingers. Spock pressed his fingers to Jim’s forehead. They felt good. Jim wanted to close his eyes. 

“Your body temperature is elevated,” Spock murmured. “You are unwell.” 

“I just...I just want to go to sleep for a little while,” Jim said. It’d be nice to put his head down now, on Spock’s shoulder or maybe just on the floor, if Spock would sit down. Jim could lie with his head in Spock’s lap, and Spock could keep his hand right there on Jim’s forehead. 

“Jim, I must speak with you,” Spock said. “It is a matter of grave importance. I trust you will keep it in confidence.” 

“Um, sure,” Jim said. “But can I just--”

Spock took his hand away. “Please,” he said. Something about the word tripped Jim up. Maybe it was Spock’s tone of voice, but he thought he remembered--

“Did we...did something happen? With us?” He shook his head as if to clear it. No, he could definitely remember now, the two of them standing out in the street at night, white sparkly lights strung in the trees outside that little place on Mission, Spock grabbing his shirt and pulling him in close--

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re referring to,” said Spock. His expression was perfectly neutral, blank even, and Jim felt something in his stomach twist. He was so sure...

“Okay,” Jim said. He tried to focus his thoughts, but they skated away from him like fish. How long had he been here, in this room? 

“Did you...did you want to tell me something?” Jim asked. 

“I wish to inform you of my resignation from Starfleet,” Spock said. 

“Wait, what? What the hell are you talking about, Spock? You _resigned?_ ” 

Spock nodded. “Effective immediately,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer to Jim, and Jim _remembered_ , could smell clean sweat and Spock’s laundry detergent (Spock did laundry?) and those fingers clenching his shirt, and he knew it had happened, he knew...

“Captain? Jim?” 

“I’m...I’m sorry. What did you say?” 

“I have resigned my commission with Starfleet, Captain, effective immediately. When the admiralty inquired as to my motivation for such a decision, I told them I had reconsidered my choice to join the colony on New Vulcan and rebuild the Vulcan race.” 

“But why...why would you decide that all of a sudden? What about--did something happen with Uhura?” 

Spock blinked. He continued as if he hadn’t heard Jim’s question. “I supplied this rationale to Starfleet,” Spock said. “But as we are...friends, I feel that I can disclose my true motivation.” 

Jim’s head hurt. “Spock, what is going on?” 

“I will quit Earth at the earliest convenience,” Spock said, “and pilot a shuttle to a rendezvous point at which I will join with representatives of the Star Empire.” 

_“Romulans?_ Spock, have you completely lost it?” 

A strange look fell over Spock’s face then, and Jim thought for a moment that he was going to break into laughter. 

“Hardly, Jim,” he said. “Rather, I have come to realize, to use a Human expression, the way the wind is blowing. Jim, you bore witness to the actions of Admiral Marcus. You saw the zeal with which he prepared for war. War is coming, Jim, whether borne by the Klingons or by others, and we would do well to consider all avenues.” 

“Do you know what you’re saying? This is treason, Spock. I mean, maybe Joe Vulcan could fuck off to the Empire, sure, but you’re a ranking Starfleet officer. I could--I should!-- have you brought up on all kinds of charges--” 

“You misunderstand me, Jim,” Spock said. He took another step toward Jim, then another. They were almost touching now. “This is by no means a confession,” he said. “This is an offer.” A tense silence fell between them. Jim stared at him, like if he could just look at Spock long enough, look him in the eye, he could figure out what was going on. 

“Look, just stop talking right now, and we’ll just...we’ll walk away, and it’ll be like I never heard this.” 

“Join me,” Spock said. His breath was hot against the corner of Jim’s mouth. 

Jim closed his eyes. “I can’t,” he said. 

“That is...regrettable,” Spock said. He insinuated a hand between them, feeling down along Jim’s body and coming back up with something. Something with a hell of a point, which was now angled at a nasty angle against Jim’s gut. _“Kiu tennau fa-wak stau,”_ Spock said. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jim said. His voice shook. 

“What I must,” Spock said. “I’m sure you can appreciate the logic of my actions,” he said. “Could it be otherwise?” 

“What,” Jim said, trying to school the quaver out of his tone. “You’ve told me your nefarious plan, so now you’ve got to kill me? C’mon, Spock, I know you. I _know_ you. You’re not like this; you don’t want to do this. You’re a vegetarian. You catch and release mosquitos. Come on,” he said quietly. He looked into Spock’s face again, looking for a spark, a glimmer of anything to indicate Spock was hearing him, but his expression was as blank as new concrete. 

Jim drove forward with as much force as he could muster. Spock felt like a brick wall, like he always did when they sparred, but Jim’s move must have caught him off guard because he stumbled to the outside just slightly. He threw his hand up reflexively, trying to right himself, and Jim reached out and grabbed Spock around the wrist. Jim had gotten lucky; it was the hand holding the knife, and he scrabbled at Spock’s skin with his fingers in an effort to dig his fingers into the tendons in the hope that Spock would lose his grip. 

Spock made a strangled noise and tried to grab at Jim’s throat, Jim countering him with his free arm. They stood locked together for a moment, gasping more with surprise than with effort. Jim’s head spun. The room shivered and rippled again, and Spock capitalized on that split second’s inattention to jab at Jim’s ankle with his boot. Jim lurched to one side and Spock pushed past the protective curl of Jim’s arm to close his hot hand around Jim’s throat. 

Panic welled up, Jim’s brain screaming as his body traitorously gobbled up the last of the oxygen. His muscles burned, and as his vision began to darken and fuzz around the edges all Jim could think was that it was surprising, how fast you suffocated. 

_I know you can hear me like this_ , he thought at Spock. _Please._

But there was nothing, no answer, no indication that Spock heard. Maybe he was lost, too far gone, just like he’d been on the bridge. _The last time we did this,_ Jim thought hysterically. Little black dots burst across his vision, blurring Spock’s face. Good. Jim didn’t want to see. 

All at once, Spock’s arm quivered. A faltering muscle, a bad angle...Jim didn’t know and didn’t care. He was past the ability to do either, and it was the rawest instinct that brought one last surge up through his arm, an arc of energy that took hold of Spock’s hand and brought it down and in and up, oh God, up to catch at something brittle and then there was nothing but blood. 

It gushed out hot over Jim’s hand and he let go of the knife, of Spock’s closed fist. He staggered backwards, slipping in the widening pool of gore. Before him, Spock dropped to his knees, mouth open and bald shock on his face. 

“Spock,” Jim said, unbelieving. He knelt, crawling to Spock on hands and knees, his trousers soaking through almost instantly. Spock slumped, eyes wide, and Jim got him around the waist. He was talking, babbling nonsense at Spock, _It’s okay, you’re okay, it’s okay_ and gathering up Spock’s limp form in his arms. He ran his thumb over Spock’s greying lips. A bubble of green burst between them, seeping around Spock’s teeth, and it was the last thing Jim saw before the room dissolved.

***

They lay in bed quietly, staring up at the ceiling. Nyota was bone tired, but whenever she shut her eyes she saw the twisted metal of that stupid sensor array, the wires she’d exposed almost right away just waiting for a judiciously-placed phaser blast. And then it would’ve been over and done with, they’d have been in. And sure, there were no guarantees, and maybe they’d have been discovered anyway. But still... she probably shouldn’t have been getting aggro on a hunk of space junk for quite so long. And she definitely shouldn’t have been thinking of the guy they were trying to rescue while she was doing it.

She sighed, rolling over on her stomach and resting her face on Spock’s shoulder. His skin dampened as she exhaled. 

“You did not cause our discovery,” Spock said. “Nor are you to be blamed for...less than purely benevolent thoughts about Jim, given the complicated circumstances.” 

She sighed again, fighting the urge to groan. She still forgot sometimes, even now, that he could do that. 

“I apologize,” he said. “Would you prefer I alert you before responding to information gleaned through touch?” 

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said. She moved her head anyway, lying back on the pillow. “Complicated is right, though. Spock, I’m sorry. I’m sorry this is happening again, especially now--” 

“Jim’s disappearance bears significant consequences beyond those directly affecting my personal interests,” Spock said. 

“I know that, okay? No one’s accusing you of being too concerned about your personal interests, trust me.” 

“Dr. McCoy,” Spock said. “Is he aware--”

“I don’t think so. At least, he hasn’t said anything to me about it. Anyway,” she said. “Like I said, I’m sorry. For you, for Len, for Jim. For all of us. Me too.” 

Spock swallowed. “I too feel sorrow,” he said carefully. “Though I find myself reluctant to submit to the belief that we have reached a conclusion. I do not believe that ending Jim’s life would be in any way a logical course of action to take. Surely an entity purporting to work in concert with the Federation and valuing secrecy would recognize the folly in drawing attention to themselves by abducting a widely recognized member of Starfleet.” 

It sounded frighteningly like hope, but Nyota wasn’t about to point that out to Spock. 

“I hope you’re right,” she said instead. She noted that Spock didn’t take issue with her use of the word. He didn’t say anything at all, in fact, just leaned over and kissed her. It was soft at first, gentle, but as she returned the kiss the tenor of the moment shifted, and Spock rolled over to rest atop her, resting his weight on his elbows. 

“I have heard,” he said between kisses, “that physical intimacy is sometimes helpful in...distracting one from unwanted emotions.” 

“Um, yes.” She thought of him the night they lost Vulcan. There had been a moment--just one, and before, not during--when she’d actually been afraid. Halfway through, he’d rolled off of her, gasping. _I cannot,_ he’d said. They’d never talked about it again, and Nyota was absolutely fine with that.

“Additionally, I believe you made an observation regarding my opinion of your suit,” he said. 

She had to laugh at that, and then he had her. He knew it, too, and kissed his way down the curve of her neck as she let it fall back. He settled between her breasts for awhile, sliding the thin straps of her chemise down one by one with methodical fingers. _Methodical is right_ , Nyota thought, because Spock was nothing if not thorough and goddammit, she appreciated that about him. And most of that must have gotten through, because Spock hummed appreciatively into her sternum.

Later, they lay on their backs again. This time, Nyota thought sleep might be a little more attainable. 

“Are you warm enough?” she asked Spock. “I can turn it up.” 

“The room is quite temperate,” Spock said. He paused a moment, sitting up slightly and looking at the place where their arms pressed together. 

“Nyota,” he said quietly. “Please speak your mind.” 

She sighed. “Can I get a pass?” 

“Of course,” he said. “However, I would prefer it if you did not.” 

“Fine,” she said. “It’s just...the older you. The day he told you not to leave Starfleet, when he talked about destiny--I just realized. That was about Jim, wasn’t it? He meant your destiny _with Jim_. You...you never said,” she said. “And I was so happy, Spock, I _am_ so happy that you stayed, but if…” She ran a hand through her hair, unsure how to go about finishing that sentence. 

“I cannot know precisely what my counterpart meant,” Spock said finally. “Nor can I fully know the extent of his...partnership with his Jim Kirk. I do not yet know what the future holds for me in that regard, and to speak plainly, I find my elder self’s fondness for the alleged whims of ‘fate’ or ‘destiny’ unbecoming of a Vulcan.” 

He added this last primly, eliciting a snort from Nyota in spite of herself. He turned to her, then, raising a hand to touch her cheek, fingers ghosting lightly over the meld point there and pulling back, hesitant. “I cannot be certain of any these things,” he said. “Yet I am certain of one: our association in this universe is no error.” 

Nyota kissed him. Her eyes were wet when they parted, and as she wiped at them with the back of her hand she flushed hot, glad for the dark. When she woke in the middle of the night, the room had cooled and Spock was wrapped in his burrito of comforter again. She prodded him with a foot and he drowsily lifted the edge so she could crawl inside.

***

Jim was in a bar.

How was it that this was always where life decided to suckerpunch him: in some sticky-floored dive, the kind you hoped to God you never saw with the lights on. He was in a bar, and his head was down _on_ the bar, resting on his crossed arms. It felt nice like this, Jim decided. He didn’t much feel like moving anytime soon, maybe ever. He was coming back to himself slowly, sense by sense, or so it seemed. He could smell something salty, like blood. He felt almost preemptively sick, like waking up too early after a big night, that creeping awareness of a hangover that was there before he even moved. 

There was someone else here, he realized. A tingle over his left shoulder, like even though they weren’t moving they were...disturbing the air somehow. He realized something else, which was that he didn’t want to look. He couldn’t remember what he’d been doing before he got here; his throat hurt, and his head, and his face. He was in a bar, though, so. Shuffling footsteps, now, and whoever it was got closer.

 _Still not looking_ , Jim thought. _Can’t see me if my eyes aren’t open, don’t you know the rules?_

Someone sat down next to him on the barstool. The tap of a glass on the wood, clink clink of ice, and Jim smelled whiskey, rich and peaty. A pause--sip, maybe--then the soft thunk of the glass replaced, a hand sliding across the slick surface of the bar with a little squeak and then leaving it to settle heavy on Jim’s head.

***

When he opened his eyes again, everything was light. He was back in his cell, lying facedown on his cot-gurney-worst ever excuse for a bed. There was a different guard posted now; Jim could tell by his frame, thinner and tenser. He could smell blood. He stuck out his tongue, licked his lips reflexively and prodded the soreness at the center of the lower. He wanted to grimace. He started to but ow, no--

It was something about the pain that did it, brought it all back. Jim was bolt upright before he’d even really finished parsing the barrage of memories, the room and all that fucking blood and _Spock_ and then Jim was yelling, maybe words and maybe not, clawing at the sheets and it was a near thing, such a near thing that he turned and saw the guy in the white coat before he pitched the fucking gurney through the glass fucking wall. 

The guy looked like he was going to piss himself. “Hey,” he said. “Hey hey hey hey hey, easy, okay?” 

Jim tried to say something that was supposed to be _You fucking kidding me_ but came out more like a pained howl. He stood there gasping for breath and clutching the sides of the gurney. It was about a foot off the ground and all it was going to take was one clean jerk up and out and that fucking glass was going everywhere. 

“It’s not real,” said the guy. He sounded like he’d been doing wind sprints. 

“What?” 

“It’s not real,” he repeated. “It...it was a hologram.” 

“You fucking kidding me?” This time it must’ve sounded right because the guy shook his head vigorously, so much so that it made his whole torso move and it would have been ridiculous if Jim hadn’t wanted to either kiss him or break his nose or drop dead of a heart attack. 

“You might want to sit,” the guy said. “Um, my name’s Kasinsky, by the way.” 

Jim sat on the floor. “Say it again,” he said. 

“It was a hologram,” Kasinsky said. “Well, a holosuite, to be more precise, but holo technology.” 

Jim started to laugh. 

“Um,” said Kasinsky. Jim didn’t stop. He wasn’t sure had it in him to stop, frankly. He motioned to Kasinsky to keep talking. 

“I was supposed to wait with you until you came out of it--woke up, I mean. You were out cold. Sometimes they wake up when they’re still in the holosuite. So...you’re still laughing, okay, so I’m just going to keep--okay. They did it to me,” he said. “I don’t know what you...what happened, but they...mine was my sister.” 

“What the--what the fuck was that _for_?” 

“A test, Mr. Kirk,” said Koerner from the doorway. He noted with satisfaction that she had a full security detail flanking her. 

“Scared?” he asked. 

“Practical,” she said. “Agent Kasinsky, you’re dismissed.” 

Kasinsky opened his mouth, then shut it again. He looked back at Jim once more as scurried from the room, and again his eyes seemed reluctant to find Jim’s. 

“A test,” Jim spat. “Don’t you have plenty of flunkies who’d, how’d you put it, be more than happy to be your guinea pigs?” 

She rolled her eyes, and Jim thought it might seriously be worth a phaser to the gut to leap at her then. “We’re not testing the equipment, Mr. Kirk. I seem to recall a note in your file--it appears you have a… somewhat storied history with the _Kobayashi Maru_.” 

“You’re testing _me_? Why?” 

“Our primary concern is loyalty,” she said. “Say what you will about our methods, but our highest priority is the security of the Federation and, by extension, the loyalty of those entrusted with her safety.” 

“I’m a Starfleet officer,” Jim said. “I’m not...not part of any kind of Federation militia.” 

“Well, that’s odd,” Koerner said. “I’m not sure what you thought you were signing on for if not defending the interests of the Federation. Oh, wait. That’s really _cute_! You thought you were setting sail to explore the universe, with naught but a tall ship and a star to steer her by?” She sighed theatrically. “Look, Mr. Kirk. It should be obvious to you by now that times are changing. You were there for Marcus; you had a front row seat for that shitshow. And while Admiral Marcus and I may not have seen eye to eye on everything, I can tell you with certainty that he is no lone wolf. And the day is coming when the Marcuses of this world--and elsewhere-- will not be operating covertly.” 

Jim shoved his hands in his pockets mechanically, turning away from her and pacing a slow circle. Koerner was still worried. He could see the way she watched his body, could practically feel her tallying the distance between them, between Jim and the door. 

“Okay,” Jim said. “Okay. So you’re telling me all this, all these deep dark secrets about the grim future of Starfleet. Why? What’s in it for you? As far as the Admiralty is concerned, Marcus as you describe him doesn’t exist, and John Harrison was a loose cannon who brought down two, nearly three Federation strongholds all by his lonesome. Which...barely holds together when you poke at it even a little, but everyone seems perfectly happy to stick with the story.” 

Koerner nodded, stepping closer. “That’s right,” she said. “And they want you to stick to it too, don’t they, Jim? Toe the line. Even if it makes you look like you can’t do your job.” 

“That’s not--”

“I read the report, you know,” she said. “Exhaustion, Jim, really? Do you think for a second anyone in the Admiralty believes that you waved the white flag on that bridge because it was all just too much? That you were just too broken up over poor Admiral Pike to bother trying--”

 _“Stop. Talking,”_ Jim said through clenched teeth. Koerner did.

“Well,” she said, straightening the hem of her shirt. “My _point_ is that of course you weren’t. Of course you didn’t. You’re a hero, Jim, and you saved the planet, and instead of a hero’s welcome you’ve got what, a hearing and what amounts to a suspension?” 

“Administrative leave,” Jim said quietly. “And anyway, it doesn’t matter--” _Because the whole point of that goddamn report was so_ this _wouldn’t happen, and look how well that turned out._

“Doesn’t it?” Koerner asked. “Say they do clear you for command. Then what? Did you really join Starfleet, get through the Academy in three years, and make Captain younger than anyone ever just to schlep the flagship of the fleet around some backwater planets for five years?” 

Jim bristled. “As opposed to what?” 

“Work for us,” Koerner said. 

_“What?”_

“You heard me,” she said. “You passed the simulation, obviously. It was very touching. Of course, one would hope you wouldn’t allow a situation to escalate that way in the field, but--”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Jim said. “You drugged me and you threw me in that room and you made me--God, I can’t even say it. All for...for what, a job interview?”

“We didn’t create that scenario, not exactly,” she said. “That was an algorithm. How were we to know you--well. Let’s just say it was a more difficult test of your allegiances that it was perhaps designed to be. But what’s important is that our initial impressions of you were confirmed. And there’s a future for you here, if you want it.” 

Jim’s head spun. More than anything, he wanted to sit down. He settled for slouching against the gurney. “How’s this recruitment strategy been working out for you?” he asked, raking a hand through his hair. 

“Most successful candidates come to understand that our methods have their place,” she said. 

“And what if I say no?” 

She shrugged. “You can spend your career fucking around in the back of beyond with your first officer,” she said.

Jim laughed, flat and humorless. “Just like that?” 

Koerner nodded. “Like I said, you passed our test. At this time, you don’t present a threat to Federation security. But listen well, Mr. Kirk. I know what I’m talking about. Things are changing. Starfleet’s changing. And if you want a hand in that, your place is here.” 

“You know, when Admiral Pike recruited me, we were in a bar,” Jim said. “I was drunk off my ass and bleeding profusely from the nose courtesy of a bunch of his cadets. So he didn’t exactly have the upper hand with me, especially back in those days. He...he brought up my father.” He found himself smiling at the memory. He swallowed it down; it wasn’t for her, he thought. 

“Anyway, of course he did, right? Who wouldn’t have? It’s the obvious tack to take. But he said...he said that my father saved eight hundred lives in twelve minutes. He dared me to do better. And at the time, to the guy who’d spent 25 years hearing about what George Kirk did, that dare was what made me get on the shuttle to San Francisco.” 

“So do better,” Koerner said. “You’ve got your whole career ahead of you, Jim. You get what he didn’t, what he--”

“I’m not done,” Jim said, raising a hand. “Like I said, at the time, all I heard was _do better_. Be better than him. I never really thought about the 800 lives part, about what that really meant. And then...and then I got my own crew. See, Pike told me something else that night. He told me that the Federation was a peacekeeping entity, a humanitarian armada. I don’t think that was just lip service to him, or to my father. And it’s not to me. So no, Agent Koerner. There’s no future for me here.” 

Koerner rolled her eyes. “I guess that’s clear,” she said. “Now are you done?” 

Jim grinned obnoxiously. “I’ll send you a postcard from the back of beyond,” he said.

***

Spock’s productivity, measured by the rate at which he read and annotated the substantial queue of journal articles synced to his PADD, had decreased by a full 30%. He’d read the same sentence a full three times before deciding to calculate the decline, and he was singularly dismayed by his findings. He laid the PADD carefully on his desk and sat back, rubbing his eyes and feeling chagrined by the need to do so.

“You’re moping.” 

Spock nearly started, and turned to see Nyota watching him from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. She was dressed in her uniform. Spock had not thought of the time for...he was unsure how long it had been. It was now 1708. 

“Vulcans do not mope,” he said reflexively. 

“Whatever,” she said with a sigh. “You’re sitting in the exact position I left you in this morning. Have you eaten? Have you even moved today?” 

Spock had indeed moved. He had gone to the kitchen to obtain a glass of water on three separate occasions. He had urinated once. It occurred to him that disclosing these facts would not necessarily refute Nyota’s point, so he remained silent. 

“I’m making you a sandwich,” she said, turning and departing, ostensibly for the kitchen. 

“Where’s McCoy?” she called as she walked. 

“I do not know,” Spock replied. Of the three of them, Nyota was the only one who had returned to duty as usual. Spock had procured a substitute for his classes- it was only logical, unfair as it would be to the cadets in his charge to deprive them of anything less than superlative instruction. McCoy had made a comment about not wanting to perform surgery until he could “tell his ass from a hole in the ground,” which, while colloquial in the extreme, was admittedly rather evocative of Spock’s current mental state following their abortive attempt to infiltrate Section 31. 

In addition to his hiatus from Starfleet Medical, McCoy had also opted, along with Nyota, to essentially take up residence at Spock’s apartment. After they returned from the _Enterprise_ shuttle bay, McCoy had walked in the front door and collapsed prone on the couch. Neither Spock nor Nyota thought it prudent to wake him, if he was indeed asleep, and following this incident he had simply...declined to leave. Spock could not find it within himself to fault McCoy for it.

The doorbell chimed. 

Spock’s first thought was that McCoy had returned, though he had been furnished with the keycode and had since ceased announcing his arrival in any other manner besides flinging the door open and immediately airing all manner of grievances at great length and volume. Spock shuddered to think of the apartment McCoy had once shared with Jim. 

A sound of shattering ceramic came from the corridor, and Spock was on his feet before he knew what he was doing. Nyota stood in the open doorway, her body dark against the frame of afternoon light streaming in from outside. Spock blinked, his eyes used to the dimmer office. Nyota stepped aside, kicking at the shards of plate, a discarded slice of bread. Jim hovered at the threshold, as if waiting to be invited in. 

“Oh my God!” Nyota cried. She lunged at Jim, throwing her arms around him without pretense. Jim’s eyes widened in shock, and they met Spock’s over Nyota’s shoulder for just a moment before Jim dropped his gaze and buried his face in her neck. His mouth moved. 

“Hey,” he said. “Hey.” 

Nyota stepped back, holding Jim at arms-length, and Spock was momentarily reminded of his mother. Something inside him drew up short, froze and jerked back into motion. 

“Oh my God,” Nyota said again. “Look at you, you look like shit. Come in here and sit down.” 

Jim laughed. Spock thought it sounded like choking. “Fuck you, I just crawled here from who knows where. I haven’t exactly been getting my beauty rest.” He looked at Spock, just a flash and then back down at the floor again, watching his feet as they carried him down the hallway. Nyota clasped Jim’s arm, leading him a chair in the living room. She cast a surreptitious look at Spock. 

Spock swallowed. His throat was dry. “Where have you been?” he asked.

Jim looked up. His eyes were deep-set, sunken and bruised. A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Section 31,” he said. “Which sounds like it should be a place, right? Except it’s not, not really. Not _one_ , at least.” He ran a hand over his face. “God,” he said. “I am _gross._ and I can’t think straight. Is there--could I--” He gestured at his body, his grimy clothing. 

“Of course,” Spock said quickly. “Please.” He gestured towards the bedroom before realizing belatedly that, of course, Jim had never been inside his apartment. “The fresher is through there,” he said. “I would offer a change of clothing, but you would doubtless be more comfortable in human civilian garments,” he said. 

“I think Len put a load through the recycler last night,” Nyota said. “I’ll just--” 

“Wait, Bones is here?” 

“Not presently, but he has been...residing here, yes,” Spock said. 

“Everyone’s been here but me,” Jim muttered. 

“Pardon?” Spock asked, though having heard Jim’s statement he had no reason to ask for clarification. 

“Nothing,” Jim said. “So, you and Bones under one roof. How’s that going?” 

“As we have technically lived ‘under the same roof’ for the better part of the last year, I note no discernible difference,” Spock said. 

“Oh,” Jim said. “Well, good? I guess?” 

Nyota returned with a bundle of McCoy’s clothing under one arm. Jim pointed at the fresher, opening his mouth as if to speak and then closing it again. Spock nodded at him, once, then turned away. When he heard the door slide shut and the sonics turn on, he went to clean up the shattered plate. 

“So, I’m going to go,” Nyota said later. They sat in the living room, watching the closed bedroom door.

“If you feel it necessary,” Spock said. Jim had shut off the sonics eight point three minutes ago. 

“Do you want me to stay?” 

Spock did. And he did not. “I do not know,” he said. 

“I commed Len,” she said. “He didn’t answer, but I’m guessing he’ll be over here as soon as he gets my message.” 

“Perhaps you should remain,” Spock said. “When McCoy returns and Jim has finished--”

Nyota nodded at the door. “He’s exhausted, Spock,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what they did to him, but he looks like he needs to sleep for a week. I hope he’s asleep now, frankly. We can debrief tomorrow.” 

“Of course,” Spock said. “You are...wise, Nyota.” 

She smiled at him, covering his hand briefly with hers. “You’re just not thinking straight. You’re almost as beat as he is,” she said. “You two should...talk. You deserve it, after everything. And I haven’t been home in two days; I’ve got to go water my orchids before they shrivel up and die.” 

“Cultivating potted plants is--”

“...something I enjoy.” 

“I merely wished to comment on the affection you seem to hold for inanimate objects. It is...interesting. Psychologically, of course.” 

“Inanimate? I don’t know about that,” she said mildly. She leaned in to kiss his cheek, then stood fluidly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I can’t wait til we stumble on some planet ruled by sentient vines or something,” she said. “I promise not to tell them about this conversation.” 

As she left, Spock noted that her bearing seemed lighter somehow, and that her tone when speaking had been suffused with a degree of levity he had not seen since prior to Jim’s disappearance. Despite his eidetic memory, Spock found he could not pinpoint the moment he became aware that Nyota’s feelings for Jim had progressed from tolerance to grudging respect to genuine friendship. He supposed this should not come as a surprise, given his lack of fluency on the subject. It was curious, now, that the realization should buoy him as it did. He stood up, straightening his hem and setting his shoulders as if the door were somehow more than merely a divider between two rooms. No sound had escaped from beyond it since the fresher ceased running. It had been fourteen minutes and twenty-two seconds, and by the time Spock slid the door open an additional fifty-five seconds had elapsed. 

The room was mostly dark, lit only by the bedside lamp. Spock half expected Jim to be sprawled across the bed in that easy, limbless way he had when relaxed, but instead he sat stiffly in the armchair to the right of the mattress, and there was nothing easy about his manner now. 

At first Spock thought he was sleeping upright, but then he opened his eyes and leaned forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees. The low lamplight made his eyes seem set even deeper. Jim blinked, and turned his head so that his face was entirely obscured by shadow. 

“I didn’t want to…” Jim waved a hand at the neatly-made bed. 

Spock did not reply, only ran a hand under the stack of pillows and yanked down the comforter and top sheet. “Please,” he said, patting the mattress. 

Jim didn’t argue, only stood with a slowness that made his body seem heavy and crossed the room to the bed. As he did, he passed perilously close to Spock, who crossed his hands at the small of his back. Jim lurched slightly, just into Spock’s personal space, and he couldn’t contain the sharp intake of breath this provoked. Jim flopped onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. He let his head loll back and looked up at the ceiling. Spock watched his throat. 

“So, sorry I just took off without calling or anything,” Jim said hoarsely. “That was a pretty egregious breach of first date protocol.” 

Spock abandoned all pretense of professional detachment and sat next to Jim. He crossed his legs and uncrossed them. Jim had folded his own legs beneath him. His feet were bare, and he tapped a finger absently against his ankle bone. 

“As I stated previously, I am...pleased that you remain in one piece, despite repeated efforts to the contrary,” Spock said.

“Likewise,” Jim said. 

“Pardon?” 

Jim shook his head. “It was just--nothing. It’s nothing.” He swallowed. 

“Do you wish to speak of it?” 

“Not really,” Jim said. “I know we need to debrief. Officially, I mean. But if it can wait--” 

“Of course,” Spock said. “You should rest. I will leave you.” 

“Do you have another bed? I didn’t think I saw a guest room.” 

“I do not,” Spock said. “However--”

“Vulcans need less sleep than humans, blah blah,” he said. “I bet Uhura knows all your lines cold by now.” 

“Indeed,” Spock said. “Particularly those pertaining to logic.” 

“Sleep in here,” Jim said. “I mean, only if you want to. We don’t have to--” He bit his lip. 

Spock nodded matter-of-factly and set about removing his clothing. 

“Oh, okay,” Jim said. “So I guess that’s a yes.” 

“Dr. McCoy has commandeered the sofa,” Spock said. “Thus, this remains the only alternative.” 

“I mean, you could take the floor.” 

Spock froze. His black undershirt was wadded in his hands and he was suddenly struck with the distinct urge to replace it. 

Jim rolled his eyes. “Spock, come on. I’m kidding.” He tugged the comforter halfway down the bed and slid beneath it. “C’mere,” he said. The sight of Jim in his bed, improbably whole, was so incongruous that Spock could do little more than comply. He sat gingerly, insinuating his body under the covers, careful to avoid brushing up against Jim. He was on Nyota’s side of the bed. 

“Is it cool if I--” Jim gestured at the lamp, and Spock nodded. Jim shut off the light and settled back against the pillows. Spock did the same, though “settled” was perhaps not entirely accurate in his case. They lay there in silence for seven full minutes before Jim sighed pointedly and rolled over on his side to face Spock. He could feel Jim’s gaze on him. It was curious, thought Spock, that he should perceive it so distinctly despite the lack of direct stimulus to his skin. He supposed there was an off-color joke to be made here, which only served to further remind him of Jim’s proximity.

“So,” Jim said. 

“Do you not wish to sleep?” Spock said. 

“I do,” Jim said. “Pretty badly, actually. But I wish...other things, too. And you can sleep when you’re dead, right?” 

“I had not heard that expression,” Spock said. “I find I am not especially partial.” 

Jim slid closer. Spock could feel Jim’s breath on his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

Spock shook his head, as much as he could against the pillow. “It is I who should apologize. Had I been more vigilant, I might have foreseen this. As it stands, I was…” 

“Distracted,” Jim said. “Yeah, me too.” He licked his lips. “The thing is, though...I couldn’t help it.” He sat up slightly, leaning over and kissing Spock on the mouth. It was a soft kiss, chaste almost, and somehow not what Spock had expected from Jim. It unmoored him. He rolled onto his side, so that their bodies were parallel, and his hands found the back of Jim’s head. He pulled Jim into another kiss, deeper now, as if part of him was determined to hold Jim still, hold him in one place and get his fill this time. 

Jim hummed into Spock’s mouth, slinging a leg over his body and scooting closer so they were pressed flush together. 

“I was so pissed,” Jim said. “That they got to me before we could--before this.” His voice had an edge to it, and there was a wildness to Jim now that Spock had not seen before. 

“Jim,” Spock said. “Perhaps--”

“No,” Jim said. “Jesus. I fucking died, Spock. I _died_.” He took Spock’s face in his hands, running his thumbs over his cheekbones. 

“I know,” Spock said. “I was there, if you recall.” 

“I don’t, actually,” Jim said. “It’s...it’s all patchy. I remember clocking Scotty--did he tell you about that? That fucker would’ve tried to go in with me. Shit. Anyway, I remember that; I remember climbing up into the warp core. I kept waiting, waiting to feel it, and then I did. And it was _bad_. And that’s when it all gets kind of blurry.” 

Spock had somehow not considered that Jim might not remember. For a time, while Jim slept at Starfleet Medical, before his recovery was certain, Spock saw the glass whenever he closed his eyes. Eventually, he ceased closing them altogether, and as night spun into morning Spock would rise and dress and walk the half-mile to the hospital. More often than not, McCoy would be there already, folded into a chair at Jim’s bedside. They rarely spoke, those mornings. Sometimes Nyota would bring McCoy coffee; apparently the offerings in the hospital canteen were lacking. She did not bring Spock anything. He appreciated the consideration. 

“Do you wish to know?” Spock asked. 

Jim was quiet. As close as they were, it was difficult to look away, but he did, appearing to stare at the threadcount of the sheets with great interest. He bit his lip. “I think so,” he said at last. “Would you?” 

“I do not know,” Spock said. “I haven’t considered it.” This was perhaps not entirely true. He thought, once, that to know the mechanism of one’s own death might allow for some small measure of comfort. On the floor of a volcano, eyes closed against the rush of fire, he learned that this was not the case. That despite the strength of his controls, at the core of Spock was the same soft creature that dwelled in Pike’s mind, recoiling from the inevitable even as cells dimmed and died. 

Jim was watching him, his expression closed. There was a glint of recognition there, and Spock’s face felt hot. “Okay,” Jim said. “Tell me.” 

Spock did. 

“...and following your...lapse into unconsciousness, I left the engineering bay in search of Khan,” Spock said. He decided that as he was being forced to recount a singularly unpleasant memory, he was afforded a certain degree of artistic license in the retelling. 

Jim’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not...exactly what I heard,” he said slowly. 

“What are you referring to?” 

“Um, Scotty might’ve mentioned something,” Jim said. “When he came to visit in the hospital. I might also kind of remember something else.” 

Spock sighed. “Immediately prior to your death, you told me--you wished to clarify exactly why you returned for me on Nibiru.” 

Even in the low light, it was impossible to mistake the way Jim’s face flushed. “Oh,” he murmured. “That.” 

“I...I concluded that this was an admission of friendship,” Spock said carefully. “Was I mistaken?” 

“God, ‘an admission.’ You say it like it’s--” Jim shook his head. “I mean, that’s one way to put it. But...I think, all things considered, I’d probably have said something else.” 

“In the interest of precision,” Spock said, “perhaps you should.” His heart beat a tattoo against the bed.

“Isn’t it illogical to ask questions you already know the answer to?” Jim was grinning now, and Spock’s heart only beat faster for it. 

“That was not a question,” Spock said.

Jim found Spock’s hand beneath the sheet. “I went back for you because I love you,” he said, his voice quiet but steady, sure. “Because I couldn’t lose you. Because _we_ couldn’t lose you. But...mostly me.” 

Jim’s statement did not come as a complete surprise, but to hear it gave Spock pause. He blinked, recovering himself. “Did you intend to confess your feelings prior to our meeting with the admiralty? I seem to recall a similarly-worded question posed at that time.” He raised an eyebrow at Jim. 

“Look at you, the fucking romantic,” Jim said, lifting Spock’s hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I lay it all out on the line and all I get in return is attitude. No, Spock, probably not. Although you look really hot in dress grays so I’m sure I was plenty tempted.” 

For the second time in their relatively short acquaintance, Spock took hold of Jim’s shirt and pulled. Jim obliged, rolling atop Spock and returning his kiss with fervor. Spock sensed a deliberateness about him now, a sense of care that had not been present at their previous encounter. “I don’t know if I even knew it then,” Jim said. “At the meeting, I mean. Maybe I did, maybe I just couldn’t put a name to it.” 

He kissed Spock again. “Or maybe I didn’t think I had to until...I did.” He sighed, resting his forehead against Spock’s. “But I guess that’s how it goes, isn’t it? There’s always more time, until there’s not.” 

“It is, as they say, an occupational hazard,” Spock said. “For the moment, however, time is not a limiting factor.” 

Jim raised his eyebrows. “That is a fascinating observation, Spock,” he said, grinding his hips against Spock’s in a way that was too much, too overt and yet not enough all at once. Spock let his mouth fall open.

“Although,” Jim said, “something tells me I could stay just like this for days, which--”

“Oh, for the love of God,” said a voice. “I knew it. They scrambled your goddamn brain!” 

Indeed, _time_ was not a limiting factor in the slightest. 

Jim rolled off of Spock and directly onto his face, which he buried in the pillow unhelpfully. 

He raised a hand in an awkward facsimile of a wave. “Hiya, Bones,” he called, with the air of a man for whom this scenario was perhaps not exactly unprecedented. 

“Good evening, Dr. McCoy,” Spock said. “I assume you received Nyota’s message. As you can see, Jim has returned in good health.” He did not labor under the delusion that this statement would be met with anything other than McCoy’s habitual acidity, and he was not mistaken. 

“Good health,” McCoy grumbled. “I’ll be the judge of that. And speaking of health, don’t come looking for me to patch either of you up after Uhura gets through with you--”

“Ah,” Spock said. “If that is the basis for your scandalized demeanor, please rest assured that--” 

“--Everything’s on the up-and-up,” Jim finished, rolling over onto his back. 

“Finishing Spock’s sentences,” McCoy said, head in his hands. “Saints preserve us.” 

“You sure get religious when your head’s about to explode,” Jim said. “I’ve noticed that about you over the years.” 

“Someone’s got to restore balance to the universe,” McCoy said, retreating from the room. “Now get decent and get out here, let me look at you.” He closed the door behind him, but it failed to fully muffle what sounded like a strangled sort of scream. 

“Um, sorry,” Jim said. He waved a hand at the door. “He gets a little weird.” 

“Indeed,” Spock said. 

Jim looked over at Spock, not bothering to mask the hungry way his eyes traveled the length of Spock’s torso. Spock still wore the loose trousers he habitually slept in, but he felt decidedly naked nonetheless. Jim licked his lips absently, and Spock was suddenly extremely disappointed by Nyota’s decision to contact McCoy, despite the knowledge that Jim’s return was doubtlessly just as meaningful to him as to Spock. 

He consoled himself with the knowledge that Jim’s expression seemed to convey his own dissatisfaction with the interruption. Jim nodded at the door. “I should--” 

“Of course,” Spock said. He rose, pulling on his previously discarded undershirt. He noted with no small measure of chagrin that Jim did not dress, merely padded into the living room in bare feet and pajama bottoms. He was clearly comfortable in McCoy’s presence, but for his part McCoy looked from Spock to Jim and back again and blushed a deep red. If Jim noticed, he did not comment. He crossed the room to McCoy and draped an arm over his shoulders. McCoy glowered. 

“Typical,” he said. “You just cruise back here like nothing even happened.” 

“Nice to see you too, Bones,” Jim said. “You missed the walking wounded act when I showed up at the front door. It’s amazing what ten minutes in the sonics and a change of clothes can do for a guy.” 

McCoy shrugged free of Jim and knelt on the floor, producing a tricorder from his bag. He waved it at Jim. “Don’t you even think about giving me any crap for this,” he said. “You waltzed back here acting like you were never gone and seduced Spock and then made me bear witness to...to whatever _that_ was.” He gestured in the direction of the bedroom. “So you’re sure as hell going to hold still and let me check you out.” 

“I did not seduce Spock,” Jim said furiously. 

McCoy looked at Spock as if for clarification.

“I have no comment on the matter,” Spock said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“I bet you don’t,” McCoy said. “You think your green blood makes you immune to his devilry? Well, you’re wrong. _Hold still!_ ” McCoy ran the tricorder along the midline of Jim’s body, head to toe, lingering at his forehead and studying the screen with a furrowed brow. 

“Your electrolytes are borderline,” he said accusatorily. 

“Sorry! And seriously, Bones, devilry? What year is it?” 

“I should get a line in and give you some fluids,” McCoy muttered as if to himself. 

Jim hugged his arms in close to his body and glared at McCoy. “No, you absolutely should not,” he said. “You should chill the hell out and we should all just…I don’t know, sit and have a beer or something like civilized people.” 

“Oh, that’ll be great for your blood chemistry,” McCoy said. However, Spock could see the tension begin to drain out of his shoulders, and finally he threw up his hands and went into the kitchen. “Fine,” he said. “Don’t know why I expect anything but noncompliance from you, anyway,” he said. He jabbed a finger at Spock. “Both of you.” 

Spock was unsure what he had done to deserve McCoy’s ire, but he had long since ceased concerning himself with the doctor’s eccentricities.

McCoy procured a pair of bottled beers from the supply he had taken to maintaining in Spock’s refrigerator. He looked over the kitchen island at Spock and mimed drinking one of the bottles, which Spock had learned was shorthand for asking if he wanted one. McCoy looked surprised when Spock nodded. He did not typically imbibe alcohol, as his dinner with Jim had proven, but something in him felt a little loose tonight, a little reckless. He suspected it had everything to do with the fact that Jim had taken a seat on the couch next to him. That Jim was here to do that, to perform so mundane an action as picking pills of cotton from the hem of his pants--which was what he was currently doing--seemed nothing short of miraculous, and that was before Spock considered Jim’s most recent whereabouts. 

“Here,” McCoy said, handing Spock his beer and sitting heavily in the armchair across from them. “So,” he said. “You going to tell us anything about where the hell you’ve been for the past few days?” 

Jim shifted in his seat, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I think we’re going to officially debrief with Uhura tomorrow,” he said. “I don’t know, Bones, it sucked, okay? Let me just…” He raised the bottle to his lips and took a drink, and Spock did the same. The beer tasted bready and strange, and Spock swallowed his mouthful quickly. 

McCoy glanced at Spock, and their eyes met as they often had over Jim’s sickbed. Jim downed half the bottle in one swallow, and Spock didn’t need to look at McCoy to know he studied Jim’s face as he drank. When Jim finished, he placed the bottle on the low table in front of him and leaned back against the cushions, stretching his arms out along the back of the couch and looking around him. 

“Nice place you got here, Spock,” he said. “How long have you had it?” 

“I purchased it in the interim between my first and second years at Starfleet Academy,” Spock said. 

“Wait, first and second year?” McCoy interjected. “So where’d you live first year?” 

“In the dormitory,” Spock said. “If I recall correctly, communal housing is not required for first-year cadets, but it is strongly encouraged. I decided I should...take the suggestion at face value.” 

McCoy snorted. “And how’d that go for you?” 

“Passably,” Spock said, and Jim burst into laughter.

“Okay, you have to tell me who your roommate was,” he said. “Because _that_ is a story worth buying several rounds to hear.” 

Spock straightened. Without looking, he began to worry at the label of his beer bottle with his thumbnail. “I do not believe that will be possible,” he said, “as he returned to the Andorian homeworld immediately following the conclusion of that first year. I believe he too received…strong encouragement, of a sort, though his pertained to a greater suitability for administrative work than science.” 

“Oh, he was science track too?” Jim asked. 

“Not for long,” Spock said. “He rendered our dormitory unlivable for a period of several months. It was conducive to neither academic mastery nor comfort, as we were forced to share accommodation with the cadets in neighboring buildings.” 

McCoy slapped his thigh with the flat of his palm, hooting with laughter. “I heard about that! They still use it as a case study for the chemical remediation module in Medical.” he said triumphantly. “That poor kid almost took out your whole floor. It’s a miracle no one got seriously hurt.” He wiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s really not funny, not funny at all. I just can’t stop thinking about who I feel sorrier for, you or your roommate.” 

“In addition to performing laboratory experiments in our common area, he was extremely untidy,” Spock said. “I do not believe the administration effectively utilized the roommate selection questionnaires they provided us with, if they utilized them at all.” 

“Seriously,” Jim said, tossing his bottle cap in McCoy’s direction. “I specifically remember putting ‘no busybody doctors’ on mine.” He met Spock’s eye and leaned down to find the discarded bottle cap. Not for the first time since they emerged from the bedroom, Spock wished Jim had thought to replace his shirt. It was...distracting. However, as this seemed to be an ongoing pattern in Spock’s current life, perhaps there was something to be said for simply, as Jim might say, going with the flow. He took another sip of beer. 

The conversation did not return to Spock’s erstwhile roommate, nor to Jim’s recent whereabouts. Spock found himself grateful on both counts. Jim seemed to relax, as if letting his guard down, and Spock was content to watch him banter easily with McCoy, to wheedle and cajole him into a second beer and then a third, until at last McCoy yawned and kicked at Jim’s bare foot with his own sock-clad toe. 

“All right, Captain,” he said. “I’m beat, and you two are sitting on my bed.” 

“As Jim has returned, perhaps you would prefer the comfort of your own accommodations,” Spock said.

“Trying to get rid of me, are you? Well, as much as I’ve enjoyed our little slumber parties, I can’t say I’ll be too broken up about sleeping in my own bed again. Fleet housing’s not exactly the Ritz, but it sure beats this Vulcan torture device.” He thumped a cushion as if in emphasis. 

“I don’t know, Bones, check out this tag,” Jim said, slipping a hand between the cushion and frame. “I think this is from that big furniture outlet on Luna. Yeah, look, it even has a name. Ektorp!” He appeared gleeful. “Oh my God, I love it. I think I just named my firstborn child. Spock, don’t let me forget.” 

Spock’s face felt hot despite his best efforts to the contrary, and Jim’s grin froze on his face as he seemed to realize all possible interpretations of his statement. “Um,” he said. “You know, the whole photographic memory thing,” he said weakly, running a hand through his hair. 

McCoy rolled his eyes theatrically. “Okay, now I’m definitely going to bed. I’ll be out of your hair first thing tomorrow morning, Spock.” 

“Do not concern yourself, doctor,” Spock said, standing up. “You are welcome to make use of my Vulcan torture device as long as you can bear it.” He took his own nearly empty bottle in hand and gestured for Jim’s and McCoy’s. He dropped them into the kitchen recycler with a clatter that made him want to wince, then turned and went into the bedroom. 

“Are you two joking around?” Jim asked in a stage whisper. “What the hell happened while I was gone?” 

McCoy did not answer, and out of eyeshot Spock could only guess at his reaction to the question. After a moment, Jim sighed heavily and said goodnight, and Spock decided he had guessed correctly. 

He visited the fresher, came out, and sat on the edge of the bed in the dark. His feet were bare, and he ran them over the carpet in a kind of waking meditation. He was dimly aware of Jim coming in, going into the fresher himself and coming out again. He sat heavily next to Spock on the bed. The mattress dipped, and they slipped together into the little valley it made. Jim’s bare arm pressed against Spock’s, their legs touched at the thigh and knee. 

“Sorry about that,” Jim said. “Out there, I mean. That wasn’t--I didn’t mean anything by it. Just talking, like always.” 

“Inconsequential,” Spock said. 

“It’s not, though. Not really,” Jim said. “Look, I want you to know, I’m not just ignoring her in all this. I know what you guys have, and I don’t want--” He sighed, as if considering. “Look, you have the real deal. I get it. I see it, you know? How you work together, just how you _are_ together. So if this is just...just, you know. I get that too.” 

He gestured inchoately. Spock did not know, but there was always conjecture. He turned slightly towards Jim, gravity’s consequences pushing them closer than intended. Jim seemed to view it favorably; Spock could see the pulse hop at his throat and hear his intake of breath. Favorably, or near to running. 

“Earlier tonight, you spoke of love,” Spock said carefully. “I would have you know that I have come to view our...our friendship similarly.” He exhaled. Jim’s eyes were very wide. “Though my understanding of the nature of such an emotion is naturally limited, I--” Jim had seized Spock about the wrist; he ran his thumb over the tendons at the inside. Spock thought it prudent to stop talking, lest he lose control of the sounds coming out of his mouth. And then it did not matter, because Jim kissed him. 

It was slower this time, and quiet, Jim’s predilection for pomp and innuendo seemingly put to rest for the evening. Jim pushed lightly at Spock’s shoulder, plucking at the sleeve of his shirt, and Spock tugged it over his head and slid out of his bottoms for good measure. Jim did the same, and as he did so he looked away with a hint of shyness that seemed entirely foreign on his face. But then, foreign was exactly what this situation was, false starts notwithstanding. 

“Mmm,” Jim hummed into Spock’s neck. “I’m exhausted.” They lay back on the bed, and Spock drew the sheet over them both. 

“Sleep, then,” Spock said. 

“Yeah,” Jim said, raising himself on one arm and rolling on top of Spock. “Yeah, I really should.” Instead, he leaned in and kissed Spock again. It was possibly in Jim’s best interests for Spock to protest, to insist Jim take the rest he so clearly needed. But Spock said nothing, only kissed Jim back and let him guide Spock’s arms up the bed so that Jim could pin them lightly over Spock’s head against the pillow. He released them and sat up, but Spock did not move.

“I wanna see you,” Jim said. Indeed, he bit his lip and stared at Spock for nearly a full minute, until Spock felt compelled to close his eyes and turn his head away. 

“Are you...are you well?” Spock asked. There was something liquid about Jim’s eyes, a trick of the light perhaps. There was no lamp on, only the soft glow of San Francisco out the window. But then he blinked and the effect was gone, and Jim smiled and nodded. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Just--” he shook his head and did not complete the statement. “It’s nothing.” 

“Jim,” Spock said. “Come here.” 

Jim did. 

Sleep seemed to taunt them, and as they moved together Spock found his mind wandering. Thoughts bled between them; at least, Spock thought they must originate with Jim, the way they appeared in his head fully formed and strangely colored. 

_Promise me._

_Promise what?_ Spock thought. 

_That you’ll live._

“I cannot,” Spock said. 

Jim sighed. _I know. Figured I’d ask anyway._

***

“You all right, Nyota?”

“Hmm?” 

“You just seem a bit dreamy,” Scotty said. They were nearly to Spock’s and Nyota wasn’t sure whether the churning in her stomach was anticipation, dread, or hunger. Scotty’d shown up before breakfast. 

“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just been...a weird couple of weeks.” 

“You can say that again,” Scotty said. “Not every day you go on a rescue mission to Jupiter. And I’ve been on tenterhooks waiting for a demotion or something from Commander Spock for messing about with those shuttles,” he said. He sounded worlds better now that he knew Jim was back. Everything about him screamed relief, and she envied him the simplicity of it. 

“I think he’s been a little busy,” she said. 

“Pardon?” 

“Nothing,” she said. She gestured at Spock’s building. “Here we are,” she said. 

Spock opened the door, nodding at Scotty and gesturing down the hallway to the living room. Nyota made to follow him, but Spock shifted slightly, blocking her path. 

Oh, thought Nyota. So we’re doing this now? But Spock looked at her, biting his lower lip and looking...hell, looking so uncertain that Nyota’s irritation threatened to evaporate entirely.

“Good morning,” Spock said. 

“Morning,” Nyota said. She waited a beat, then bobbed up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the lips. She pulled back and looked at him. On a human, his expression would have been a smile. 

“Good night?” she said. His eyes cast down at his feet, just slightly and almost quick enough to miss. Nyota didn’t. Spock nodded. He extended his hand, and she hesitated for a moment before she met his fore-- and index fingers with her own. Spock took a step towards the living room. He looked back at her and tugged gently, and they walked the rest of the way like that. 

Jim was perched on the arm of the couch, balancing a huge mug of coffee on his knee. He still looked like shit, and God help her, she still wanted to go over there and touch him, be sure of things. So she walked over and squeezed his shoulder, and he looked like he wanted to cry with relief.

“What’d you think I was going to do, come in here phasers blazing?” 

He shrugged, and glanced at Spock. “I might,” he said. He sighed. “I still owe you that drink.” 

“Believe me,” she said. “I haven’t forgotten.” 

McCoy came out of the kitchen, clutching another mug. “Morning,” he said to Nyota and Scotty. “So,” he said, prodding Jim in the shoulder. “Are we going out to brunch or are you going to tell us just where the hell you’ve been before I have to pry it out of you with surgical instruments?” 

“Ew, Bones,” Jim said. “Fine. I guess we might as well get this over with. You guys should probably sit.” 

They did. Nyota found herself on the couch on one side of Jim, and she didn’t miss how Spock stepped deftly in front of Scotty to sit on the other. 

“So,” Jim said, wiping his palms on his jeans reflexively. “Marcus wasn’t shitting us about Section 31. Which, I mean, we knew, but…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I imagined at first,” he said. “Maybe some kind of rabbit warren, like they had under that archive in London. But this...this is an infrastructure. I’m not sure exactly where I was--and before I keep going, Spock and Bones filled me in on...on what you all did. Coming after me, I mean. So, I should...I should say thanks for that, and also if you ever do anything that idiotic again, I’ll bring you all up on charges.” He smiled, looking down at his hands. 

“Were you Earthside?” Scotty asked. 

Jim shook his head. “I’m pretty sure I was in space,” he said. “Maybe on a ship, maybe on a space station? So they could’ve moved somewhere else, but someone’s still using that base behind Jupiter, right? And Koerner--she was my handler or whatever--she said something about them being under construction. Seems like even if it wasn’t a completely new setup, they were rebuilding in some way, though it didn’t really seem like it was having much of an effect on the whole cloak-and-dagger business.” 

“Speaking of which,” said McCoy, gesturing at Jim. 

Jim rolled his eyes. “Look, it wasn’t--it wasn’t that big of a deal, okay?” 

“Seriously?” sputtered Nyota. From the other side of the couch, Spock sat bolt upright. “I must respectfully disagree, Captain.” 

“Well, it wasn’t,” Jim said. “They weren’t really interested in me the...the way we thought they’d be. I mean, they ran some tests, but it seemed like Khan was old news to them in some ways. It was more like…” He laughed mirthlessly. “It was more like an informational interview, to be honest.” 

“What do you mean?” Nyota said. “Are you saying they were recruiting you?” 

“I don’t know,” Jim said quickly. “Maybe? There was a lot of talk about how things are changing and war is inevitable and the same kind of doom and gloom crap Marcus kept spouting. So if I’m really looking for guts and glory I should throw in my lot with Section 31 and screw the whole _ad astra_ thing.” 

“Fascinating,” said Spock. “I thought Admiral Marcus might be an anomaly in his entanglement with Starfleet, but perhaps the organizations are more closely linked than I had previously considered.” 

Jim nodded. “I think they’ve got their fingers in all kinds of pies. Starfleet, the Federation itself.” He shook his head. “They say their primary concern is Federation security,” he said. “I’m not sure that’s entirely compatible with turning Starfleet into a war machine and picking fights with the Klingons, but hey, I turned them down. So maybe I’m not Section 31 material after all.” 

“Small favors,” McCoy said. “I don’t know, Jim. It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to just to ask someone a question.” 

Jim looked away, rubbing at his arm absently. “Maybe they’ve got a flair for the dramatic,” he said. “Nothing especially intimidating about just comming someone, is there?” 

Nyota was pretty sure there was more to the story, maybe a lot more. From the look on McCoy’s face, he was too. But he seemed content to let the topic drop, because Spock asked a question about Jim’s estimation of the size of their facility and McCoy remained silent. 

“Makes you wonder what the point is, doesn’t it?” said Scotty. “I mean, here I think I’m signing on to explore the universe, to facilitate that--engineer it, if you will. And now these--these people are flitting about behind the scenes like they’re pulling puppet strings. I wasn’t playing about when I quit, Jim,” he said. “And I came back because of you--because of all of you, because it was the right thing to do. But if Starfleet is spoiling for war, I want no part of it.” 

Nyota’s first impulse was to cross the room and shake him, tell him he couldn’t leave. But what would she do, if the order came? Would she resign her commission, or would she go up into the stars to fight, to speak the words that ordered her crewmates--her friends--to cease communications and initiate hostilities? She thought back to the day Spock came to her office, how much she’d wanted to get out from behind that desk and go somewhere, anywhere. She thought of space hemmed in by borders and battle lines, of a limitless vastness bit back piece by piece. It made her throat feel tight. 

Jim nodded slowly, considering. “I get it,” he said, looking up at Scotty. “I do. I can’t say I’d quit too. I mean, I might, I very well might. But it’d--well, I’d have to weigh a bunch of things first. But look, I don’t believe Section 31, Scotty. Not yet. I don’t--I can’t believe that people like Admiral Pike are just outliers, that everyone in that room when Khan blew up Daystrom besides Pike and Spock and me were all in on it. I have to believe that Marcus is the outlier, that he was in with Section 31 and he saw an opportunity--saw me--and ran with it.” 

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “And maybe I’m being naive as hell, but fuck if that’s not the only way I can sleep at night these days. The other thing is… if they are right, if war is coming--with the Klingons, with the Romulans, anybody--we’re going to need people up there who remember what things were like before. Who want to get back to that.” 

“He’s right,” Nyota said. “What are we going to do, just quit and say screw it, whatever happens happens? Sit around dirtside here or on some other planet and try to forget? We have no idea what’s going to happen now, but there’s no way we can do anything about it if we walk away now.” 

“Well, hell,’ said Scotty. “Now you’ve got me feeling bad.” 

“Don’t feel bad,” said Nyota. “Just stay.” 

Scotty leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the coffee table. “I’ll think it over,” he said. “Talk to some people.” 

“He means Keenser,” interjected McCoy.

Scotty ignored him. “But I suppose if I was going to stay, not knowing how things were going to turn out...I could do worse for a crew. But for God’s sake, we’ve got to get Mr. Chekov up to speed. He’s coming along, but I can barely get him to put on the red shirt. Bit strange, really. We’ve had your friend Gaila back on board, though,” he said, turning to Nyota. “I think it’s helping.” 

Nyota grinned. “I bet,” she said. 

“Well, that’s settled, mostly,” Jim said, matching Nyota’s smile. He nudged Spock, who appeared startled out of deep thought by the gesture. “What about you?” Jim asked him. “You’ve been awfully quiet.” 

Spock shook his head slightly. “I have been considering the merits of both Mr. Scott’s argument for resigning his commission with Starfleet, and yours for remaining,” he said. 

“And?” 

“I have not come to any precise conclusion,” Spock said. “Were Starfleet to diverge so drastically from its current stated mission, I too would strongly consider an alternate course. I have no interest in a so-called preemptive strike, on both Vulcan and personal principles. However, I believe that there is merit to remaining in a position from which to effect change, as both you and Nyota stated.” His brow furrowed. “Additionally,” he said, “I find I have become somewhat...attached to the idea of a deep space exploratory mission. While this is hardly an important consideration--” 

“It’s okay, Spock,” Jim said. “I’m pretty psyched about deep space too. I just left that part out because I thought it made me sound more selfless and captainy.” 

Nyota snorted. Across the room, McCoy shook his head slowly. She wasn’t sure how it was possible to look comically pained, but he was somehow accomplishing it. 

Jim sighed. “Now all I have to do is get off this stupid administrative leave and actually get assigned somewhere.” 

“No, now all _I_ have to do is get our ship running up to snuff after everything she’s been through,” said Scotty. “I swear, Jim, it pains me on a daily basis.” 

“I feel you, Scotty,” Jim said. “Believe me. But she’ll be back, and better than ever. Keep the faith.” With that, the conversation lulled. They sat quietly for a few minutes, seemingly lost in thought. Nyota thought she should probably feel better about things than she did, considering. But despite Jim’s appeals to faith, a sense of uncertainty still churned bitterly inside her. She thought of her office again, of reams and reams of transponder logs, dull as dirt but real and solid. She didn’t know if it made her feel better or worse. 

“Well, all that talk about space made me thoroughly uncomfortable,” McCoy said. “Plus, I slept like hell last night on ol’ Ektorp here.” He patted the couch. “So if it’s all the same, I think I’ll politely excuse myself.” 

“Yeah, no, I think we’re ready to wrap things up,” Jim said. “Oh, and it should go without saying, but let’s keep this Section 31 stuff as quiet as possible, okay?” 

Scotty and McCoy said their goodbyes, and all at once it was just the three of them. 

“Hey, guys,” Jim said, grinning obnoxiously. Nyota was 90% sure it was a defense mechanism of some kind. 

“Hi, Jim,” she said. “I don’t know about you, but I could go for a drink right about now.” She looked pointedly at the door, and Spock shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat. 

“It’s like 11:00,” said Jim.

“I like mimosas.” 

“I’m more of a bloody mary guy myself,” he said. He stood up, offering his hand. She looked at him for a second, measuring, and then she took it and allowed herself to be helped up from the low couch. She shook her head, smiling. 

“What?” asked Jim. 

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “Just reflecting on the relative absurdity of this situation.” 

“Curious. I find myself similarly reflective,” said Spock. 

“How about while we’re gone, you spend some time contemplating the relative awesomeness of this situation,” Jim said. “Meanwhile, I’ll employ my boundless charm and a pitcher of mimosas to encourage Uhura to do the same. But, uh, let’s skip the speculation on which of those will be more effective.” 

Nyota patted Jim’s arm. “Nice to see you keeping things in perspective,” she said. 

They left Spock to his own devices, which would hopefully be something more productive than pacing the apartment until they got back. “Are you certain you would not prefer that I join you?” he’d asked on the threshold. 

“We’ll be fine,” Nyota said. Spock looked skeptical. 

“Really,” said Jim. Spock gave them a final once-over, then disappeared back into the apartment, closing the door behind him. 

“What’s his deal?” Jim asked. “It’s like he thinks we’ve got mutual hits out on each other or something.” 

“You don’t? Because--” 

“Seriously, though,” Jim said. “On a scale of one to Gorn octuplets, how weird is this for you? And tell me straight, okay?” 

“We’re not waiting for mimosas?” she asked plaintively. She sighed. “Okay, straight,” she said. “It’s...pretty weird. I’d give it at least a five on the Gorn scale.” 

“I’m not sure how high that actually goes.” 

“I mean, put yourself in my position, Kirk. You’re telling me that if your--your partner came to you and said, ‘hey, this guy I’ve historically had a totally volatile relationship with--and who’s my superior officer, and who _recently died_ \--invited me out to dinner and surprise! I kind of want it to be a date’, that you’d just shrug it off and be totally fine?” 

“Wait, what did he actually say? Did he _say_ we had a volatile relationship?” 

“Jim, focus!” 

“Gah, fine. I don’t know, Uhura. I really don’t. I’ve never been--I don’t know what it’s like, okay? But...I know what I said earlier, about coming in phasers blazing, and if we’d been--maybe I can picture it, if it were him and me and someone else. I’ve just always kind of ended up being the someone else. Not the way you’re probably thinking, more metaphorically speaking. But...yeah. It’s been fun, don’t get me wrong, but it’s just different.” 

“You and Gaila are perfect for each other,” she said. It just sort of came out before she could stop it, and she glanced sidelong at Jim, worried she’d overstepped. But he was smiling to himself like he’d just remembered something, and his face was soft. 

“We’re sympatico,” Jim said, nodding. “And _we’re_ here,” he said, as they drew up in front of a red awning. 

Nyota raised her eyebrow at Jim. “Classy,” she said. 

“Only the best,” he said, offering her his arm. 

Nyota had to hand it to Jim. Sure, sometimes it felt like the entire past year or so had been an exercise in giving Jim Kirk credit where it was due. But let it not be said that Nyota Uhura was too proud to stand corrected. And besides, if she was being honest, refusing to make things right with Jim would pretty much have just been cutting off her nose to spite her face, for a variety of reasons. Not the least of which was that he seemed to have excellent taste in restaurants. 

“So if this whole thing is so weird to you,” Jim was saying, waving his fork for emphasis, “why’d you give us the green light?” He chased a bite of grilled tomato around his plate and studiously avoided looking at her. Maybe he thought she was about to come to her senses, take it all back. She sipped her mimosa and took her time swallowing, the champagne bubbling bright on her tongue. 

“I don’t know,” she said. She laughed, a little sardonically. “Probably because it’s Spock.” She set her glass down. “When you died--it was like nothing I’ve ever seen. He was killing Khan when I got to them, with his bare hands. He couldn’t hear me, couldn’t speak--the Spock we know was just gone.” 

“Jesus,” Jim said softly. “I mean, Bones told me what happened, but I guess I never really thought about...what it must’ve been like.” 

“When he came to me that day to tell me you asked him to dinner, he looked like he was scared shitless,” Nyota said. “You know what he’s like, you can tell him ‘til you’re blue in the face that some of it...some of this messy, beautiful, confusing _feeling_ is worth it, Vulcan or not. But no matter what happens, he doesn’t--” She stopped herself. Her pulse was racing. 

Across the table, Jim stared raptly. “Not sure you were talking to me just then,” he said carefully. 

“I’m not either,” Nyota said. “But the thing is, Jim, for better or worse--I love him. And I want him to be happy, whatever that actually means for him.” 

Jim had pushed his plate away. His hands were folded in his lap, and at Nyota’s words he dropped his gaze as if studying them. When he looked up at her again, the expression on his face chilled her. “Can I tell you something?” he asked. 

“Of course.” 

“When they took me--Section 31, I mean--when they took me up to wherever, it wasn’t just a meet and greet in a conference room, you know?” 

“I can imagine,” she said.

“See, I’m not sure you can,” Jim said, wincing slightly as if at some remembered pain. “Or that you’d want to. There was...there was a procedure, I guess you could call it. It’s supposed to test your loyalty to the Federation.” He raised his hands in feeble air quotes, and the chill that passed through her a moment earlier settled stubbornly in Nyota’s gut. 

Jim looked out the window, watching the passersby. It was a nice day, cool and breezy but sunny for the end of March. Half the people on the street in this part of town were probably Starfleet in some form or another. She found herself wondering if they’d ever sat across from their commanding officer--their friend--waiting to hear something horrible. 

“They made me kill him,” Jim said. “They--I was all messed up, drugged, and they had a holosuite. I mean, it wasn’t him, not really, but I was so out of it I barely knew which way was up. And then there was Spock, talking about defecting to the Romulans or something. It was so ridiculous, I should have known…” He blinked, wiping at his eyes.

“Jim,” said Nyota gently. “You were drugged. You just said so yourself.” She slid her hand across the table towards him, let it rest there. 

“I didn’t say anything earlier because it’s not like it changes anything, not really. Bones would’ve lost it, and Spock--well, it just seemed better not to get into it. I know their methods now, so there’s that.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Nyota said. 

“I...I think I love him, Uhura. Fuck if I know how that happened, but there it is.” 

“Welcome to the club,” she said. She lifted her hand and held it out to Jim. He hesitated for a second, then took it and shook. He didn’t let go, so neither did she. His hand was dry and warm, and he held hers loosely like it was a small creature that might scare if he gripped too tight. “You know,” she said, “considering the circumstances, I’d probably be okay with ‘Nyota.’” 

“No way,” Jim said. “Um, I mean, I’ve gotten kind of attached to Uhura.” 

“Oh yeah? How’s that?” 

“Well, you’re pretty much the reason I’m sitting here today, if you want to know the truth. No, don’t look at me like that, I’m serious. I was circling the drain that night at the Shipyard, man. I was going to finish whatever lighter fluid I was drinking and go home and pass out. And then a certain xenolinguist sat down one seat over…” 

“And the rest is history, right?” 

“Hey, I’m just reporting the facts,” Jim said. “And certain aged Vulcans I know seem to set great store by destiny, so all I’m saying is that maybe--” 

“What, you and I are meant to be too, in our way?” 

“Stranger things have happened,” Jim said, grinning obnoxiously.

“Wow,” she said, laughing. “At least your game’s improved since Iowa.” She held up a hand. “Marginally improved. And I’m probably only saying that since I’m a couple mimosas in.” 

Jim paid the check with much fanfare, and as they rose to leave a companionable silence fell between them. It held until they were halfway back to Spock’s. Jim stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to face her, a slightly stricken expression on his face. 

“You never said,” he said. “Not really. Are you happy? Because if not...”

“The last few weeks--hell, the last few months--have been rough,” she said, considering. “But... somehow, I have a good feeling about where things are going from here.” 

“Huh,” Jim said. “You do?” 

“Yeah, I really do.” She leaned into Jim’s shoulder and nudged it with her own. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get back to our Vulcan.”

Four months later

Jim walked into Starfleet Medical whistling to himself and thinking about Spock. It was a pretty common state of affairs these days, and he wasn’t about to complain. Even the dreams were starting to taper off, as if his subconscious was finally getting Section 31 and their fucking holosuite of terrors out of its system. But then, that was what therapy was _for_ , wasn’t it?

“Morning,” said Dr. Noel as Jim flopped onto her couch. It was much squishier than Ektorp. He wondered how far things needed to progress with Spock before he could start making polite but firm suggestions about redecorating. 

“Hi,” said Jim. 

She gave him a measured look, eyes narrowing. “You’re looking good these days, Captain Kirk,” she said. “In my professional opinion, of course.” 

“Of course,” Jim said, smiling Cheshire-cat wide. 

Dr. Noel rolled her eyes and brandished her PADD, stylus poised. “So what’s new this week?” 

“Not a whole lot,” he said. “I had dinner with Number One last Friday,” he said. “She’s already making noise about the three of us coming over for Christmas, but hopefully we’ll be wrapping up the refit around then and making a couple test runs, so I’m not sure what the schedule will be--” 

“How is she?” Which was somehow a roundabout way of asking _How are you when you’re with her,_ but Jim had come to be okay with it by now. 

“She’s good. She’s got a bunch of Chris’s--of Admiral Pike’s stuff in storage and she wants my help going through it. Which is--it’s kind of weird, right? Poking through a guy’s personal effects when I don’t even know how he’d feel about it.” 

“What does Number One say?” 

“That there are things he’d want me to have. I think some archival stuff about the _Kelvin_ he hung onto from researching his dissertation. But if you push too hard about it she starts invoking logic and it all gets a little too close to home, so I guess I’ll just go with it and worry about what I find later.” 

Dr. Noel scribbled something on her PADD and asked him a question about the refit, which was going pretty well considering they still weren’t completely sure what exactly they were refitting for. But it was cool, Jim would always take the opportunity to ramble at length about the _Enterprise._ They continued in this vein for the next half hour or so, when Jim’s comm chimed insistently in his pocket. 

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Let me just--” he was fumbling with the buttons, attempting to switch it to silent when Dr. Noel’s PADD gave the happy little _ding!_ sound that heralded a new message. 

“Now I’m the one who should apologize,” she said, scrolling through the controls. Then she froze, smiling and suddenly looking like she might sit up and applaud. She dropped the PADD to her lap and looked at Jim, smiling even wider.

“What? What just happened?” 

“Jim,” she said. “Check your messages.”

***

“I think I’m going to puke, Spock. I’m serious.”

“Please avoid soiling your dress uniform,” Spock said, “And try to vomit expeditiously. Our meeting begins in five minutes and thirty-six seconds.” 

Spock picked up his pace as they crossed the courtyard toward the infuriatingly-named Marcus Memorial Hall, the newly refurbished site of the conference room where a council of ‘Fleet Medical and various admirals no doubt sat in climate-controlled comfort waiting to crush Jim’s dreams. To the average cadet watching the two of them, impeccable in dress greys, Spock probably seemed the picture of Vulcan austerity. But to Jim’s increasingly practiced eye he looked a little wild, like he might break into a run. Jim couldn’t help but think back to the last meeting they’d walked to together--less than a year ago, really, but it might as well be a lifetime.

Jim veered over to a clump of bushes and bent at the waist, trying to crane his neck as far as possible from his clothes. His stomach churned warningly, but nothing was forthcoming. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. Spock watched from a safe distance, his brow furrowed in concern, though it was more likely about being late for the meeting than Jim’s delicate constitution. Spock cleared his throat diplomatically. 

“Okay, okay,” Jim said. “Think they’ll kick me back to cadet if I boot all over the carpet?” 

Spock refused to dignify that with a response. 

They arrived at Conference Room F with ninety seconds to spare. Jim pointed at the letter on the door and made a pained choking noise. 

Spock laid a hand on Jim’s shoulder as if to still him. With the other, he straightened Jim’s collar. 

“Thanks,” Jim said. 

“As I stated once before, all will be well. Undue agitation will not alter the outcome.” 

“I’m not so sure those are exactly compatible.” Jim took a deep breath. “Look, before we go in there--Spock, if I get stuck ferrying supplies back and forth to Starbase 5, getting babysat by the admiralty...I want you to know that I’ll understand if you want to put in for a transfer. You’d be wasted on milk runs, you’re too brilliant, and you and Uhura should--”

“Be silent,” Spock said softly. He leaned over and kissed Jim quickly on the mouth. They had only just parted again when the frosted glass of the conference room door turned clear, and the door slid open to admit them. 

Standing in front of the council, Jim was struck with a sense of deja vu. Here was the same long table, the same huddle of admirals and assorted bigwigs who were about to rule on his ability to command a crew, a conclusion they’d probably come to via some kind of algorithm. At least he had Dr. Noel’s testimony on his behalf, or so she’d assured him at the end of their last appointment, at which she’d officially declared him a graduate of therapy. 

“Not that continued sessions wouldn’t be beneficial,” she said. “In fact, I’m working on getting the go-ahead to mandate mental health debriefs on all prolonged deep-space missions.” 

“Good luck with that,” Jim said sincerely. “But you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t encourage my CMO to be an early adopter. He’d enjoy it way too much.” 

Back in the conference room, Dr. Baht stood and cleared her throat, commanding Jim’s attention. He didn’t dare look at Spock, who stood ramrod-straight next to him, but he still felt reasonably comforted by his presence. And in that moment, Spock’s words hit home. All would be well. They’d work it out, one way or another, and damned if that didn’t sound a hell of a lot like simple, illogical faith. Jim made a mental note to hassle Spock about it later. Affectionately, of course, and preferably while in a state of undress. 

“Captain Kirk,” Baht said. “This council has spent the last six months deliberating your case, such as it is, so I’ll not prolong the suspense.” She looked at Jim, and her lips quirked into a small smile. Oh God, he really might puke. 

“We have come to the conclusion that the Harrison incident and your subsequent physical and mental impairments--” (Jim thought he saw Spock glance over at him out of the corner of his eye, probably praying to Surak or whoever that Jim wasn’t going to lose it at the word ‘impairment’) “--have not impeded your ability to safely and competently command a crew. Your command is hereby officially reinstated, and your return to active duty is effective immediately. For what specifically that duty entails, I will turn the floor over to my colleague, Admiral Barnett.” 

She stepped forward and extended her hand. “Congratulations, Captain.” 

Jim swallowed. “Thank you, ma’am.” Beside him, Spock nodded his own thanks, and Dr. Baht and the team from Medical left the room, leaving a considerably sterner Admiral Barnett in her wake. 

_All will be well._

“Captain Kirk,” said Barnett. 

“Sir?” 

“I have to say, I think this leave period has been at least as hard for me as it has for you.” 

“With all due respect, sir, I think I may have to disagree with you there,” Jim said. 

“It’s no easy feat, making assignments. Particularly for the flagship, which you managed to get home from her test voyage intact. Though that didn’t mean much, in the end. Though I’ll grant you that that part wasn’t exactly your fault.” 

Jim looked at the floor. 

“You met with Admiral Pike on your return from your maiden voyage to Nibiru, about nine months ago, didn’t you? And if I recall correctly, that meeting saw your first officer there with you as well, did it not?” 

With him in body, if not exactly in spirit, Jim thought. Although, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure if that was strictly true. Where had it started, he wondered? _I went back for you because I love you. _But what if Spock had asked him why at that first meeting? What would Jim have said then? Called on the carpet and pissed as hell, Jim thought he’d probably have hauled off and punched him.__

__“It did, sir,” was all Jim said. Spock shifted from foot to foot. Jim wondered if he remembered Jim’s question in the antechamber at Daystrom, standing speechless and opening and closing his mouth like a fish._ _

__“Well, Kirk, I’m gratified to be the one to tell you that I think you’ll be a little happier with this outcome,” said Barnett. “Although by rights, someone else should be here in my place. I’d like nothing more than for that to be the case, and I mean that with absolute sincerity. So it’s with great pleasure that I officially reaffirm your command of the _USS Enterprise_ , on behalf of Admiral Christopher Pike, and inform you that pending her completed refit, you’ll be taking her out for an extended cruise.” _ _

__“Sir, is this--”_ _

__“Starfleet’s inaugural five year deep-space exploratory mission,” said Barnett. Blood roared in Jim’s ears. He tried to fight it back, wishing he had whatever magic Vulcan powers that allowed Spock to control that kind of thing. He wanted to hear this, every word. He was afraid he might miss something, like the part where Barnett started pointing and laughing at Jim’s willingness to believe._ _

__But it didn’t come. “Congratulations, son,” was all Barnett said. “Try to keep her in one piece this time.”_ _

__They staggered out into the hallway, and Jim wasted no time in dragging Spock into a deserted restroom and kissing him squarely on the mouth. “Holy shit,” Jim said. “Holy fucking shit.”_ _

__“Are you all right?” Spock asked, with a ghost of a smile._ _

__“Yes! No. Yes? I just--I hoped, you know? But I didn’t actually let myself think--hey, don’t look at me like that, and don’t you dare say ‘I told you so.’” Jim raked a hand through his hair. Was he sweating? He was definitely sweating._ _

__“I will do no such thing,” Spock said, though he sounded distinctly pleased with himself._ _

__Jim slumped against the wall, turning to one side and letting his cheek rest on the cool tile. “I just--I need a second,” he said. Spock leaned in next to him, taking Jim’s hand, and they stood like that until Jim’s head stopped spinning and he finally, finally stopped feeling like he was going to be sick. He straightened, took a deep breath and let it out. It felt like he’d been holding it for months._ _

__“So,” Spock said. “What will you do now?”_ _

__“Do you have anywhere else you need to be right now?”_ _

__“Negative,” Spock said._ _

__Jim felt a smile break over his face like a wave. “We have to comm Uhura. We have to comm everyone, because we’re having the biggest fucking party you’ve ever seen.”_ _

__They did. And Jim knew it to be true, because Jim Kirk knew parties._ _

__They got back to Spock’s and opened the door to find their arms suddenly full of Uhura, who’d clearly sprinted down the corridor to them like it was a long-jump runway. The first thing she did was take Jim’s face in both her hands and kiss him full on the mouth, which left him weirdly blushy and stammery. He recovered while she kissed Spock hello, and then there went all his hard work again when she stepped back and grabbed both his hands and squeezed._ _

__“It’s really happening?” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “We’re really going?”_ _

__“Looks that way,” Jim said. Uhura clapped her hands and danced back down the hall to the kitchen. “I’m comming everyone,” she sing-songed. “Or maybe just Gaila. She has some kind of genius phone tree invitation system.”_ _

__Spock audibly gulped, and Jim whacked him on the shoulder reassuringly._ _

__“Live a little, Commander.”_ _

____

***

“I am quite certain it will be necessary to hire a cleaning service,” Spock said as he watched Chekov knock his drink over next to the sofa. He looked up and met Spock’s eye guiltily, his _sorry_ unheard over the beat of the music. Spock almost winced. “Additionally, I believe my neighbors may file a noise complaint.”

“We invited your neighbors,” Jim said. “Problem solved. Haven’t you ever had a house party before?” 

Spock gave Jim what might have been described as a murderous look. 

“Oh, hey,” Jim said. “There’s Carol over by the drinks. I’m going to go talk to her; she looks kinda lonely. Why don’t you go eat some party snacks and make out with your girlfriend and pretend she isn’t just as complicit in this shindig as I am?” 

Spock said nothing, but he did Vulcan-kiss Jim before taking him up on the suggestion to find Uhura. Jim decided to count it as a win. 

Carol smiled gratefully as he joined her at the makeshift bar. “Thanks for the invitation,” she said. 

“Of course,” Jim said. “Hey, you were there for the shitty stuff; you get to be there for the happy ending too.” 

“Ending?” Carol said, looking out over the room. “Looks more like a beginning to me.” 

Over in the kitchen, Spock was leaning up against Uhura, who’d laced her arm through his. Bones stood next to them, spots of color in his face, waving his bottle of beer in the air as if to punctuate some remark, probably about the horrors of space travel or an outbreak of Andorian something-or-other. Spock shook his head, and Uhura threw back her head and laughed. 

“You know,” Jim said, “you might be right.” 

Several hours later, the party showed no signs of winding down. Jim now found himself sitting on the couch, he and Uhura squished on either side of Spock, Gaila and Chekov wedged onto the end. It was really way too many people to be remotely comfortable, but somehow Jim was anyway. Last Jim saw of McCoy, he’d sidled up to Carol. Jim hoped he was faring a little better than he had defusing the torpedo. In front of the couch, Scotty and Sulu had pushed the coffee table out of the way and hooked up a flight sim game to the vidscreen, declaring a tournament. 

“Uhura, you’re playing winner,” Sulu said over his shoulder. “I’ve been practicing.” 

“Bold talk,” Scotty said. “Bold talk indeed.” 

Uhura shook her head. “Just keep going, boys,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “I’m going to have to show one of you how it’s done, doesn’t really matter who it is.” 

There was a chorus of “Ooooooh” from Gaila and Chekov’s peanut gallery, but Jim wasn’t really listening. The sim interface was clearly modeled on a Constitution-class bridge, all whites and silvers and flares of blue, and it was making him...homesick. 

Jim’s comm buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. One unread message, unlisted number. His stomach clenched, and opening the message confirmed that it was with good reason. 

_Congratulations, Captain. Give my regards to that First Officer of yours. And do remember our little talk, won’t you?_

He could find the IP, try and trace it...but there was no point, and Jim knew it. There was a 99.9% chance that comm had already been crushed under a boot somewhere. 

He put his comm away and sighed. It shouldn’t have been audible, not with the sound system turned up to eleven, but Spock turned to look at him anyway. He did not bother speaking, just raised an eyebrow. Jim considered for a second, then bent close to whisper/yell into Spock’s ear. 

“Want to get out of here?”

Spock gave Jim a look that made his stomach somersault. He nodded, then turned to Uhura at his other side. 

“I’m going to stay,” she said, leaning over Spock’s lap so Jim could hear. She nodded at Scotty and Sulu. “Flight school,” she said. 

“We’ll be back,” Jim said apologetically. 

Uhura squeezed his forearm. “Go,” she said. “Go check her out.” 

Jim wasn’t above commandeering a shuttle, but they got lucky and caught an engineering ensign up late training on the transporter controls who was all too eager to beam them aboard the ship. She gulped as she saw them materialize on the pad, but Jim just waved and made for the door. 

The ship was pretty well deserted. Night shift workers would carry on despite the late hour, but restoration efforts focused on the engineering deck and outside on the hull. Every now and then they came across a little pocket of engineers in the corridors. Jim was torn between wanting to hug each and every one of them, despite the fact that most of them weren’t actually members of his crew at all, and wishing they’d all disappear and leave him alone with his ship, with his Spock. 

“She’s so pretty,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

“You are aware that interior refurbishment has yet to take place,” Spock said. 

“Hold your tongue,” Jim said. “She’s _perfect._ ” He wanted to go up on the bridge, but Spock demurred. In retrospect, it was probably for the best. He seemed to know what Jim was up to even before Jim himself did, and while Spock appeared to be infused with a certain degree of Jim’s present devil-may-care attitude, he had his limits. 

“Fine,” Jim said. “Let’s go check out my room.” 

Spock was right, of course. The work crews hadn’t gotten around to the cabins yet, so Jim’s room looked pretty much the same as it had the last time he’d been in it. But that didn’t matter, because the last time he’d been here he hadn’t had the heady anticipation of five years in space. Now, the promise of it gilded every surface. Jim walked the perimeter of the room, running his hand absently over the walls before falling back onto the bare mattress and sitting up on his elbows. Spock watched him from the middle of the room, somehow managing to look amused without any actual perceptible change in his facial expression. Jim had to hand it to himself; he was getting pretty good at the whole Vulcan boyfriend thing.

He patted the bed next to him. Spock raised an eyebrow, but he came over and sat down anyway. 

“Hi,” Jim said. 

“Hello,” said Spock. 

“We got our ship,” Jim said. “We really got our ship.” 

“We did indeed,” said Spock. He reached out and took Jim’s hand. “I am most gratified.” 

“I really meant what I said before,” Jim said. “About transferring. You love it up here as much as I do, Spock. Admit it, you’d have been miserable dirtside.” 

“Vulcans cannot be ‘miserable’,” Spock said primly. Jim thought he might beg to differ based on intel from various sources, but he decided to give Spock a break. 

“However,” Spock continued, “I feel certain that my services as first officer would not have gone amiss in any setting.” 

“Oh, wouldn’t they?” 

“I shudder to think of the dire straits in which you might find yourself without me,” Spock said. 

“You smug bastard,” Jim said. “Get over here.” He hooked a finger under Spock’s collar and pulled him in for a kiss.

Jim would probably have preferred sheets on the bed, but when it came to convenient horizontal surfaces, he’d definitely made use of worse. And Spock seemed to have set aside any misgivings he might have harbored, because he was kissing Jim back with aplomb and acquiescing to being lightly shoved back to sprawl lengthwise along the narrow bed. 

“This thing is way too small,” Jim muttered as he fumbled with the zipper on Spock’s jacket. “I’m going to have to put in a request for at least a queen.”

“I concur,” Spock said, batting Jim’s had away and making short work of his clothing. Spock was nothing if not efficient. Jim appreciated that about him. He followed suit, and before long their clothes were reduced to a pile on the floor of the cabin. 

Jim rolled on top of Spock and took his face in both hands, leaning in to kiss him deeply. He’d never expected Spock to be so into kissing the human way. It seemed a little too messy and visceral, hard to reconcile with someone who at times seemed to be all right angles and hospital corners. But Jim was coming to see another side of Spock as the days and weeks ticked into months and their association deepened. At times it left him at a loss for words, which was saying something. On more than one occasion, Uhura had burst into laughter just at the sight of him, because apparently Spock had a way of leaving Jim’s very being disheveled and shell-shocked in a way she was uniquely predisposed to notice. Welcome to the club indeed. 

This Spock made it disturbingly easy for Jim to imagine what it must have been like after he died, to see what Uhura saw when she went after Spock and dragged him back from the edge, dangling Jim’s life like some kind of fucked up carrot. This Spock liked the mess, liked it a little bit painful and dangerous sometimes. But he could be tender too, sweet almost, and in some ways that was just as shocking. 

Now, Spock took hold of the back of Jim’s head and held him still. He bit at Jim’s lower lip with his teeth until Jim moaned into his mouth, then moved on to the tender skin of his throat. It was a good thing that meeting was today, Jim thought a little hysterically, because he wasn’t sure how well he was going to be able to cover that later. He felt a kind of preening satisfaction seep between them at the thought. 

“You’re incorrigible,” Jim said. “You really are.” 

Spock blinked up at him innocently. “I have no idea what you’re referring to, Captain,” he said. 

“Don’t even think about captain-ing me,” Jim said, kissing the corner of Spock’s mouth. “Unless, of course, you’re in the mood to take orders.” 

“You are considerably flush with your reclaimed authority,” Spock murmured. “Perhaps under the circumstances, it would be prudent to reacquaint yourself with command.” 

There was also the part where Spock was a little bit kinky. That was interesting. 

“Hmm,” Jim said. “Now that you mention it, I _am_ feeling a little bit rusty.” He sat up and scooted to the head of the bed, back against the wall. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his briefs and tugged them down. He was mostly hard already, and he hissed as the cotton dragged over the head of his cock. Jim lifted his hips so he could shimmy out of them and kick them off to join the pile on the floor. 

It was always kind of a struggle to sound appropriately toppy when part of him was still utterly gobsmacked at the sight of Spock kneeling across from him on the bed. But Spock was staring at Jim’s cock and licking his lips the way he always fucking did, absent-mindedly like he didn’t even know it, so in the end it wasn’t that much of a stretch for Jim to clear his throat and use the bridge voice. 

“Get to it, Mr. Spock,” he said. “You know what I like. And no touching yourself until I say.” 

Spock made a little noise. He leaned down, a hairsbreadth from the head of Jim’s cock, and he fucking _breathed_ , a humid precursor to the sudden influx of hot and wet that happened a second later as he opened his mouth and took Jim inside. 

“Jesus, Spock, that’s--” Jim gasped, scrabbling at the mattress. Then he remembered himself, what Spock wanted, and jerked his hips up into Spock’s mouth. “Fuck yes,” he said. “Take it.” 

Spock did. And touch telepathy was super fun in these situations, because if Jim shut his eyes and concentrated--as much as he could possibly concentrate when Spock was doing his best chrome off a trailer hitch impression--he could almost feel it. The trip trigger of Spock’s gag reflex and the ache of his jaw, lizard brain warring with superior Vulcan muscle control. And somewhere down deep in the mire of it all was the secret core of Spock, the part that glowed with something like pride when Jim carded his hands through Spock’s hair and tugged just so, moaned and tossed his head back and said filthy things about how hard he was going to come down Spock’s throat. 

“God, you’re so good, you’re so fucking good,” Jim groaned, clutching at Spock’s hair and twisting. “It’s like you were born to suck dick.” 

He thrust into Spock’s mouth again. Sometimes, when they were both really into it, he’d hold Spock’s head steady and just fuck his mouth relentlessly, watching his eyes stream and knowing in his skin and his bones just how improbably into it Spock was. But Jim could already feel a tightness beginning to coil low in his belly, and it occurred to him that he wasn’t quite ready for that to happen. He slid his hand down and brushed his knuckles across Spock’s cheekbone. As if anticipating Jim’s next move, Spock pulled off of Jim just enough to take a long breath before plunging back down to take him all the way to the balls. And then he hummed, oh jesus fuck, and started to do something amazing with his throat, and yeah, things were about to get serious if Jim didn’t intervene. 

“Spock,” he said. “Spock. Logic, okay? If you make me come in your mouth, how am I going to fuck you?” 

Spock appeared to consider this, hesitating and lifting his head. Jim had to look away a little bit, because seeing Spock, fucking _Spock_ , with his eyes a little glassy and unfocused and cheeks flushed green and spit gleaming on his lips--well, that endangered the whole fucking situation just fine all on its own. Because it had been four months and Jim wasn’t even beginning to get used to this. 

Spock seemed to come back to himself a little, sucking his lower lip in as if contemplating his options. “Your...your logic is sound,” he said, though he looked down at Jim’s cock a little regretfully. 

“C’mere,” Jim said, hauling Spock up the bed to kiss him. “What do you want?” he asked. “You want me to fuck you?” 

Spock’s face went a little greener, and he bit at Jim’s shoulder. 

Jim laughed. “Okay,” he said. “You still into the captain thing?” 

“Jim--”

“Hands and knees,” Jim said, letting his voice harden. 

Spock flipped onto his front, lifting himself up on his hands and knees as directed. The room was unnaturally quiet, quieter than Jim could ever remember it. Without the engines droning in the background, all Jim could hear was the bellows-gasp of their breathing. Spock’s eyes were closed, his lashes fanned dark against his cheek.

“Open your eyes,” Jim said. 

He scratched a hand lightly over Spock’s lower back, leaned in and bit the soft flesh of his ass. Spock gasped at the contact, and Jim huffed a laugh. He sunk his teeth in a little deeper until Spock twitched, and then Jim licked at the pale green crescent he’d left behind. He repeated the pattern crossways, biting and licking his way from the small of Spock’s back inwards. He sat back to look at his handiwork and trailed a finger contemplatively down the cleft of Spock’s ass. 

“Look at you,” he muttered. “I wanna taste,” he said. 

Spock didn’t answer, just moaned into the mattress and thrust his hips back towards Jim. He leaned over and kissed Spock’s tailbone, idly wondering if that whole deal about Vulcans descending from cats was bullshit or not. He tried to picture Spock with a tail. It seemed oddly fitting. As if on cue, Spock squirmed, somehow able to broadcast impatience with a single movement. Jim laughed. 

“Patience is a virtue, Mr. Spock,” he said. 

It was probably the oldest cliche in the book, the straight-laced guy who came apart at the seams in bed, but cliche or not it was totally satisfying to someone like Jim. And this was the best, he thought, the absolute best for that--hot and a little bit dirty and right at the knife-edge of Spock’s comfort zone for some reason. It was like the blow job thing--when Jim went for it, really went for it, he could feel Spock mirrored back at him. A frisson of shame and embarrassment tinged his pleasure, and it made Jim want to soothe him and tell him it was all right and then blow right on by that fine line, burn all the bad stuff away and undo Spock completely.

He wasn’t sure how much of his thoughts Spock could get like this, but it didn’t stop him from running his mouth anyway. Figuratively speaking, of course. 

_So fucking hot like this,_ he thought as he fucked his tongue in and out of Spock. _I’ve got to get you ready for me. Look at you, though--you’re so fucking shameless for it, Spock, I should’ve known you’d be like this._

Spock made a frustrated sound and rolled his hips downward like he was trying to grind against the mattress. Jim slid a hand around and found Spock’s hipbone, tugging up on it. 

“What’d I say?” he asked. 

Spock returned to hands and knees, hissing out a breath. 

“Tell me what I said,” Jim said, smacking lightly at Spock’s inner thigh. It was a little mean, making him talk, but that was okay. Spock could take it, even if he didn’t much want to. He stayed quiet, but he still had the audacity to shove his ass back in Jim’s face.

“Mmmph. Are you serious right now? What’d I say, Spock?” 

Spock heaved a put-upon sigh, like even getting his ass thoroughly eaten did not begin to make up for Jim’s myriad failings. Jim went back to work. _Yeah, yeah. We’ll see who’s sighing later._

“You--you specified--”

_Yes?_

“No touching,” Spock gasped. 

“Until?” 

“Until--ah--until you permit it...” 

Jim reached up and ran his hand along Spock’s side. _Good, you’re so good,_ he thought, and damned if it didn’t make Spock back his ass up even more enthusiastically. Jim insinuated fingers alongside his tongue, the better to stretch Spock open. Jim bet he could get Spock to come just like this, to fall apart from the inside out. It was tempting. But then, so were other things. Jim slid his middle- and forefinger inside Spock experimentally. He was hot and wet and _clasping_ , and the sensation sent a bolt of anticipatory pleasure straight to Jim’s dick. 

“Mmm,” Jim said. “Aw, fuck, Spock.” He withdrew his fingers reluctantly and leaned down to rummage through the pile of cloth on the floor, finally retrieving his pants and rifling through the pockets. 

“Aha!” 

He sat up again, victorious, brandishing three condom packets. If Spock wasn’t Spock he would absolutely be rolling his eyes at Jim right now. 

“What?” Jim asked innocently. “I like to be prepared for eventualities. Is that so weird? Plus, I mean, I was planning on either celebratory or consolation sex, depending, and if things had gone the other way I was probably going to need a lot of consolation, so--”

Spock made a face that Jim decided to go ahead and translate as “shut up and fuck me.” 

Jim tossed aside the other two condoms and opened the remaining packet with his teeth. 

“These are lubed,” he said. “But--” 

“Ah,” Spock said. Jim thought he detected a note of triumph in his voice. “You are not alone in preparing for eventualities,” he said, nodding at their clothing. “Or perhaps I should say inevitabilities.” 

“You love it,” Jim said, locating the bottle of lube in record time. He held out his implements to Spock. “Do you want--”

Spock nodded, plucking the condom from its packet and reaching out almost tentatively to fist Jim’s cock. His eyes fluttered closed, obviously relishing the sensation. Jim reached for him and pulled him into a kiss. Without parting, Spock rolled the condom on and slicked Jim with lube. When he was done, Jim pushed him gently down to the mattress, lowering himself against Spock so they were flush. Jim found the lube again and spread a judicious amount onto his fingers, reaching down between Spock’s legs, and then he was guiding himself inside. 

Jim closed his eyes, then opened them again, torn between wanting to focus on how it felt and wanting to see Spock doing the same. He couldn’t help it; he opted for the latter. He loved to see Spock unguarded like this. He didn’t talk about it with Uhura; they had kind of a tacit understanding that what they’d come to refer to as turbolift conversations weren’t really a viable strategy if their arrangement was going to work. But if he had to bet, he’d put his money on the fact that she felt like he did--because Jim loved Spock, he did. He loved the stick up his ass and his fucking stoicism and every strand of half-Vulcan DNA in every cell of that brilliant, infuriating mind of his. But Jim loved this too. Maybe he loved it even more--the human moments, the ones he stole when Spock didn’t know he was looking, the ones he thought he’d hoard until the end of his days. Like looks for like, after all, whether or not it should. 

Spock’s eyes were closed. He bit his lip against the stretch and burn as Jim pressed into him, and Jim could see his eyeballs darting under thin lids. Spock exhaled, and Jim slid in deep. Spock’s mouth fell open, and a tiny _“Oh”_ escaped it, more breath than word. 

“Yeah,” Jim said, voice wavering a little. “Me too.” 

He rolled his hips slowly, lazily. For all his manic darting about the ship, Jim found he didn’t want to rush this now. But he could tell Spock was close already. He reached down and grabbed at Jim’s hips encouragingly and dragged his teeth along Jim’s shoulder, and so there was nothing for it but to oblige. He changed his angle and picked up the pace, watching Spock’s face carefully. He thrust just so, and yeah, there it was--Spock’s jaw dropped open and he clawed at Jim’s back. 

“There you go,” Jim said. “I got you, baby. I’m going to give you what you need.” 

_“Aitlun tu,_ ” Spock muttered, his voice canting upwards. He’d heard it before; it was the nearest Spock got to needy. “Jim--”

“I know,” Jim said. “You’ve been so good for me. And I can feel it, I can feel how much you want it.” He slid his hand along Spock’s belly, into the sticky mess between them. He took hold of Spock’s dick, ran his thumb casually over the head, and Spock actually fucking whined. 

Jim leaned down, his mouth pressed against the pinna of Spock’s left ear. He breathed out slowly and felt the resulting shudder run all the way down Spock’s body. “You want to come, don’t you, Spock? You want to touch yourself?” 

Spock said nothing, just bit his lip and nodded. So Jim reached up and took hold of his chin, and gently but firmly turned Spock’s face to his. 

“Ask me,” he said. _I like it when you ask nicely._

Spock opened his eyes. The corners of his lips twitched upwards, another little ghost smile. “Please,” he said.

Jim kissed him, sucking Spock’s lower lip into his mouth and rolling it between his teeth. 

_Please._

“Do it,” Jim said. He sat back, hands on Spock’s hips for purchase. “I want to see.” 

Spock hummed his satisfaction, wasting no time in sliding his hand down to take himself in hand. Jim kept his angle, watching the way each thrust into Spock’s body slid him up the bed a little, threw off his practiced rhythm and made him a little more desperate and jerky. His breath came in gasps now, his eyes screwed shut as Spock went wherever he went when he was about to come. Sometimes Jim made him keep his eyes open, pressed their foreheads together like they could meld that way. It hadn’t happened yet; Jim wondered, but he hadn’t gotten up the nerve to ask. Their minds unjoined, Spock’s eyes always closed when he came; as open as he was like this, he was lost to Jim at the very end. Maybe it would always be that way, and he’d have to be all right with it.

But then, wasn’t Spock open to him already? Wasn’t he wet and hot and tight around him, didn’t he twitch and moan for Jim as he chased his pleasure down shamelessly? _What more can you ask for, really,_ thought Jim, as he laid his hand over Spock’s and bit down hard on Spock’s earlobe. He was close too, now, so fucking close. So when Spock came, tensing and spurting over their hands, he swept Jim right along with him. 

He collapsed on top of Spock, limbs refractory and useless. Spock laced his hands around Jim’s waist and kissed his temple like a benediction. They lay there like that for a long time, Jim stumbling close to sleep. Maybe they should curl up on the floor, make a nest of their clothes. And then there was...something. Some little prick in his mind that was too excited and happy--deep-space, Spock’s rare half-dreamy manner-- to let itself turn into a nag. 

Five years is forever, thought Jim. But somehow he knew that it could never be like this up there, warm and languorous and uncareful. He got the feeling that if he looked hard enough he could see it all rolling out like a star map in the phosphenes behind his eyes: aliens and hostile planets and fear and pain and hope and science and cowboy diplomacy and hortas. 

Wait, what the fuck’s a _horta?_

Spock opened his eyes then. He ran a finger down the bridge of Jim’s nose, over his mouth. “You love it,” he said, like he knew Jim’s thoughts. The words were strange on his lips, and he was right. 

Jim did.

Stardate 2259.359

“You guys know it’s fifteen til already, right?”

Nyota was sitting on the couch, contemplating the unopened bottle of champagne perched on the coffee table. She’d been ready for at least ten minutes, and she was not a low-maintenance kind of dresser-upper, so she was having a little trouble understanding why a Vulcan and a starship captain were going to make them late. Well, maybe the second one wasn’t such a mystery.

“I can’t find my tie,” Jim said, bursting out of the open bedroom door with his collar askew. “You know, the one with the little Crab Nebulas?”

“Did you look on the tie rack?” 

Jim gave her a blank look. Nyota sighed. “Back of the closet door,” she said. “They’re organized by color.” 

Jim charged back into the bedroom. She could hear him banging around in the closet, eventually giving a muffled crow of triumph. “Here we go! Spock, c’mon, I _told_ you not to clean up my stuff. Your system doesn’t make sense to anyone but you.” 

“I will not comment on the inherent logic of my ‘system’,” Spock said primly. “And if your possessions were less inclined to replicate like Tribbles on every available surface, it would be unnecessary to incorporate them into it.” 

Not for the first time, Nyota thought that keeping her own place was the smartest decision she’d ever made. Jim technically still had his, but she got the feeling compartmentalizing wasn’t his strong suit. “We need a bigger apartment,” she said to Spock, who had emerged from the chaos to sit beside her on the couch. 

“Jim needs less clothing,” he said. “And moving would serve no long term purpose, as we will shortly be allotted separate quarters aboard ship.” Nyota snorted, reaching over to squeeze his hand. 

Finally, Jim was ready, his tie in place and several elegantly wrapped packages tucked under his arm. “Okay,” he said. “Christmas! Let’s do this thing.” 

Nyota hadn’t been to Number One’s since the first time, back when Jim was missing. She couldn’t help but smile as they pulled up outside, Jim having wheedled Spock’s keys and driven them through the quiet streets fast enough that they were only five minutes late, not that it really mattered. Number One wore an off-white sweater and very red lipstick and seemed to be the kind of person who went for subtle but cheery holiday decor, like springs of real greenery and artfully placed holly and white lights instead of multicolored. And she had a huge tree, which Spock immediately eyed with suspicion despite a professed familiarity with “human winter holiday rituals.” It was understandable, Nyota thought. Vulcan hadn’t exactly teemed with coniferous forests, and for all his interest in the sciences Spock wasn’t really the commune-with-nature type. 

“I’m going to open a bottle of wine,” Number One said, going into the kitchen and sweeping Jim along in her wake. Nyota went over to Spock, who had plucked a long needle from one of the tree’s boughs and was inspecting it between thumb and forefinger. 

She was suddenly seized with a bubbly feeling, a happiness more mobile and effervescent than just contentment. It was Christmas, and they were weeks from casting off into the black, and Nyota wanted to grab Spock by the lapels and kiss him really hard. So she did, careful to pull him behind the bulk of the tree so they were shielded from the kitchen door. 

“Merry Christmas,” she said against his mouth. 

“Have you been drinking?”

She laughed. “Not yet,” she said. “Just...happy.” 

“That is evident,” Spock said. There was a warmth to his voice that told her sure as words that the feeling was mutual. 

“I’m glad we’re here,” she said. “It was the right thing.” 

“I concur,” Spock said. 

“You think he’s okay?” she asked, nodding toward the kitchen. 

“I do not know,” Spock said. “I believe so.” His eyes lingered on the doorway. Inside, Jim was laughing at something. The sound seemed to seep inside her and match the buoyant joy that fluttered in her chest. She wanted a glass of wine. 

A minute later, Jim came out of the kitchen carrying a tray. On it were a trio of elegant champagne flutes and a little plate of--

“Stuffed mushrooms,” Jim said. “I think.” He balanced the tray on one palm and handed Nyota a glass.

“My hero,” she said, passing the glass on to Spock and taking another for herself. She gestured at the tray. “Here, put that down,” she said. Jim gave her a quizzical look and set it down on the edge of the coffee table. 

Nyota held up her glass. “To a new year,” she said. “And a new ship.” 

Jim smiled. “Cheers,” he said, holding out his glass. Spock did the same. Nyota watched the rims of their glasses kiss with a clink. Bubbles shot up furiously, and when the light from the tree caught them the champagne looked like molten gold. 

She took a drink, and her eyes met Jim’s over the bottom of her glass. He winked. Beside her, Spock had gone back to his examination of the tree, and he cupped a round, red-marbled ornament in his palm. “This tree is decorated with replicas of the Federation planets,” he said, something in his voice sounding almost boyish. “This is a scale model of Vulcan.” 

Number One came out then, telling them to grab a plate and serve themselves. Spock blinked at the planet in his hand and let it fall, watching it for a moment as it swung and settled on its branch. He looked around at them as if aware he’d been caught out. Then he straightened and made for the kitchen. 

Jim stepped close to Nyota, brushing her shoulder with his own. “Did you see that? That was like...childlike wonder, or something. Christmas tree in the mess next year, obviously.” 

She nodded. “Obviously. And maybe a mini one in his quarters, too.” 

Jim elbowed her gently. “Nyota Uhura, I like the way you think,” he said. He looked down at his hands, then back up at her. He licked his lips, and if she hadn’t known better she’d have called him nervous. 

“Jim, what--”

“I’ve...I’ve got something for you,” he said. “Just--” he held up a hand, then turned and jogged over to the foyer. He returned with one of the packages she’d seen earlier. 

“Seriously?” she said when he handed it to her, trading it neatly for her champagne glass. “Jim, you really, really shouldn’t have.” 

“Open it,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. The paper had little Starfleet logos on it; you could buy it from the Academy bookstore and it had wrapped probably 85% of the gifts Nyota had given and received since joining up. She ran a finger under an edge, fighting the ever-present temptation to rip. 

Inside the wrapping was a box, and inside the box was a book. A real book, old and redolent of leather and creamy paper and the libraries she daydreamed about, that no one would ever see the like of again. She ran a finger over the binding. “Wait,” she said, stilling on the foil-stamped title. “This is--” 

_“Open_ it.” 

It was a Vulcan-Standard dictionary, though of course they’d called it English back then. The front plate bore an exuberant full-color illustration of Zefram Cochrane standing outside the _T’Plana-Hath_. He was holding a screwdriver, and he looked like his eyes were about to fall out of his head with surprise. A berobed Vulcan stood in the ship’s open hatch, bowl cut intact and hand raised in the _ta’al._

“It’s one of the first they ever made,” Jim said. “There was a big rush on printing them after First Contact, so there are a bunch of shitty paperback editions, but they made some really nice ones too. It’s probably not complete, but I thought it was pretty cool.” He hesitated a second. “And, you know, fitting.” 

She held it to her chest, belatedly aware it should probably be tucked back into its archival case. God, her palms were all sweaty, she was going to ruin it. “It’s amazing,” she said. “Thank you.” 

“Merry Christmas, Uhura,” Jim said quietly. 

Gold light from the tree played across his face. Nyota didn’t have too long to contemplate why exactly that made her mouth go dry and her brain short out, because Spock came in carrying his plate of food and fixed them with what seemed dangerously close to a knowing look. Nyota wiped her palm on the hem of her dress as subtly as possible. Jim smiled at her again, and handed back her glass before he turned away. He was halfway to the kitchen when she caught back up, reaching out to touch his arm. 

“It’s perfect, Jim,” she said. “I mean it.” 

He cleared his throat. “What’s perfect is Number One’s turkey,” he said. “Seriously, it’s a freaking Christmas miracle.” He shrugged gently away from her touch and into the other room. Nyota hung back and took a big swallow of champagne. 

Jim was right, of course. The turkey was amazing, as was pretty much everything else. Jim had made a pie, which Nyota was still quietly losing her shit over, because Jim Kirk in Spock’s kitchen rolling out scratch-made dough (“No, I will not replicate pie crust, and both of you are blasphemers for even suggesting it”) appeared to catalyze all kinds of paradigm shifts for her. Also, it was really good pie. Spock ate two pieces and then sat staring glassily into the candelabra, probably half-drunk on fat and sugar. Eventually, the last dessert plates were cleared away and the dregs of coffee drunk down. Number One leaned across the table, fixing Jim with a look that somehow managed equal parts warmth and steel. 

“I have something for you, Jim,” she said. Across the table, Jim gulped audibly. If she heard him, Number One gave no sign. “It’s upstairs, if you’ll follow me.” 

Jim looked over at Spock helplessly, but he got up and did as he was told. “Um, if I’m not back in like half an hour, send help,” he said. “And pie; I’ll probably need some pie.” 

Spock and Nyota migrated to the couch, where they sat shoulder to shoulder. Nyota wanted to curl up against him and maybe fall asleep, but the knowledge that they were, in fact, at someone else’s house kept her upright. 

“Where’d they disappear to?” she asked. 

“Admiral Pike’s office, I believe,” Spock said quietly. He leaned back against the cushions and turned to look at her, heavy-lidded. “Number One wishes to bequeath Jim certain records related to the _USS Kelvin_. He has been avoiding it for the past four months. Number One has apparently resorted to manipulating the Terran custom of holiday gift-giving for her own purposes.” There was a hint of admiration in his voice. 

“Taking notes on that for later?” 

The corner of Spock’s mouth twitched. “Did you say something?” 

“Oh no,” she said, leaning over to kiss the edge of his not-smile. “Nothing at all.” 

Jim came back downstairs a while later, a large envelope tucked under his arm and red rimming his eyes. They didn’t stay much longer after that, thanking Number One profusely for the food and hospitality and making their way out to the car. Jim tossed Spock the keys, then opened the front passenger door for Nyota and slid into the backseat. He sat quietly the whole way back to Spock’s. She turned to look at him as they drove. He was staring out the window, watching the smear of lights run by. 

At the door, Jim hung back, letting Spock and then Nyota walk in ahead of him. “So, I guess I’ll take off,” he said. 

“What?” Nyota asked. “But--”

“It’s your night,” Jim said with a shrug. 

“But it’s Christmas,” said Nyota. She wasn’t sure quite where that came from, but suddenly it seemed irretrievably wrong that Jim should turn around and leave now, walk back home alone holding Pike’s envelope and nothing else.

“Uhura--”

Nyota walked over to him, her gaze fixed inexplicably on the nebulae swimming across his silk tie. She reached out for the edge of it, running her thumb over the softly mitred point. She tugged on the tie, and Jim took a step forward. He had a vague look of terror on his face, and it made Nyota want to laugh. She thought about the book, and the pie, and about all those months of Jim Kirk infusing her life, making a good thing even better. 

“Stay,” she said. “Please.” Before she could lose her nerve, she gave the tie a solid yank. Jim stepped closer still, and Nyota bridged the remaining space herself to kiss him. 

He gasped against her mouth, and for a split second she was sure she’d badly miscalculated. But then Jim lifted a hand to her face, crooking a finger under her chin in clear encouragement. 

“What the hell, Uhura,” he said when they pulled apart. He was smiling, and his face was beet red in the low light of the doorway. It made her stupidly happy. 

“Merry Christmas?” 

“Fascinating,” said Spock from the vantage point he’d evidently assumed just down the hall. “I believe I am experiencing jealousy.” 

“Oh, really?” Jim said. He lifted a hand to his mouth, running a thumb over his lower lip. “Who are you jealous of?” 

“I do not know,” Spock said, slouching against the wall with a measuring look.

“Only he could sound that pleased with himself under the circumstances,” Nyota said to Jim. 

“Seriously,” Jim said. 

Nyota reached out and took hold of Jim’s tie again. “C’mon,” she said, raising her eyebrow pointedly at Spock as she did. “Let’s go see if he knows what he’s getting into, because I’m not sure he does.” 

Spock coughed. Behind her, Jim burst into laughter. He leaned back against her grip on the tie, as if for one last look out into the cool night. “Oh man,” he said. “This is going to be awesome.” 

She followed his gaze. Somewhere above them was their ship, and an embarrassment of stars. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, it really is.” 

 

END


End file.
